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POEMS 



BY 

FAY HEMPSTEAD 

POET LAUREATE OF FREEMASONRY 



COMPLETE EDITION 



"All the years invent. 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development: 

And men, through novel spheres of thought, 
Still moving after Truth long sought, 
Will find new things when we are not." 

— The Two Voices. 






COPYRIGHT I922 
BY 

FAY HEMPSTEAD 



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Mlu -7 1922 

©CI.A681286 



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"Let me write the songs of my people, and I care not 
who make their laws." 

Fletcher of Saltoun. 



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SAVANT 

Faint flashes of that inner sense, 

That leaps to life and prominence, 

Then lapses into dull repose, 

Like one when drowsy eyelids close: 

Light, fleecy, clouds that float and fly 

Across a breadth of Summer sky: 

That vanish with the moving wind, 

And leave no track or trace behind, 

Are these brief lays. Yet unto thee, 

That readest here, I fain would be 

The solace of an idle hour: 

To charm, mayhap, with slender power, 

The finer sense thou turnest to try 

If yet in rhyme some zest doth lie. 

Oh, could the verses be to thee 

But half the joy they were to me, 

As line by line fell from the pen, 

And thought by thought flew out, Oh then, 

I well might think thee one who says: 

Poor lines, ye yet make welcome lays. 



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TO 

MY WIFE 

Beloved partner of more than fifty years, 
this Volume is inscribed. 




Little Rock, Arkansas. 



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CONTENTS 

POEMS IN FIRST VOLUME. 

Not Contained in Subsequent Editions. 

Dombey's Dream, A Vision of Remorse ... 1 

Remember, Love 4 

Memory's Isles 5 

Estenoza 6 

"It is Said There's an Isle in the River of Time." . 9 

Apostrophe to The Year 10 

Alecta 12 

From a New Year Carol 38 

"What Art Thou, Year?" 41 

The Search of Diogenes. (Epigram) .... 42 

Hymn 43 

A Christening Token 44 

Danger 46 

"We Sat Beside the Rushes" 48 

To John G. Whittier 49 

The Counsellor's Tale 51 

POEMS IN SECOND AND OTHER EDITIONS 

The Priest of Camajore 62 

A Stricken City 73 

"And One Sleeps in the Sea" 76 

The Christmas Gift 81 

A Retrospect 87 

vi 



INDEX Vll 

The Masquerade 93 

A Farewell 97 

Agimus 99 

The Poet's Song 102 

Clydham Grange 104 

TheRowen 117 

Margaret Main 119 

Tantalus 127 

The Standard-Bearer 129 

Tuccia 130 

Mountain Meadows 133 

A Serenade 135 

"I Saw No Temple There" 136 

Sonnet 138 

Songs: 

"Love is a Master" 139 

Boat Song. The Broad-Bosomed River . . .141 
Hunting Song: "Softly the Morning is Rosy 

With Light" . 143 

"When Sweeps the Wind at Summer Time" . 144 

"My Home is the Sea" 146 

Sonnet 147 

Winter-Glimpses 148 

The Departed Year 154 

Abendschein 155 

O-ni-hah-ket 156 

The Richest Prince 168 

The Drought 170 

The Summer Rain 171 

The Fugitive . . . 172 

The Hanging of The Crane 174 



vm INDEX 

Redivivus 180 

Nemesis 185 

Poem at The Grant Banquet 187 

Alumnae Poem 190 

Lullaby 194 

A New Bethesda 195 

To Edgar Fawcett 198 

The Storming of The Fort 200 

M. V. C 203 

After The Ball 204 

Dedicatory Poem 206 

Epithalamium 207 

Kairon Gnothi 208 

The Hundred Years 211 

The Wrangler 216 

Mount Holly 228 

Sin No More 230 

A Revel 232 

Abendlied 239 

Die Wacht Am Rhein 242 

Inanes 244 

At Elberon 246 

The Surfman 248 

Ichabod 250 

Longfellow . 252 

The Northern Moloch 255 

The Boating 259 

The Second Burial of Payne 262 

Memorial Day 265 

De Minimis 268 

Wedding Song 277 



INDEX IX 

"Daughter With The Irish Eyes" .... 278 
The Wreck at Nobska Light . . . . . .281 

Tenebrae 285 

The Sacred Rose of Orient 290 

The Night-Watch 292 

Heshvan 295 

A Second Song 297 

A Fated Race 302 

The Monument 305 

Gomorrah 308 

A Winter Lawn 311 

The Building of The Church 313 

A Welcome 317 

A Woodland Idyll 322 

Detained 326 

A Forsaken Building 329 

After Slumber 335 

Life, (A Sonnet) 336 

Poetry: Quatrain 336 

The Holly Tree 337 

On The Death of Alfred Tennyson ... 342 

National Song 347 

America 348 

Regnault 349 

Silver-Wedding Sonnet . . . . . . 352 

A-Wheel 353 

A Southland Song 355 

A Seaside Song 356 

At Havana 357 

The Battle-Cry 358 

At Manila , 359 



X INDEX 

FUGITIVE POEMS 

L'Envoie 361 

Hymn 362 

Banquet Song 363 

The Morning-Glory 364 

The Modern Knight 366 

"The Day When The Savior Was Born" . . 367 

"Will He Come and Find Me Ready" ... 368 

"The Temple of The Lord Are We" ... 369 

"Oh, The Glory of The Lillies," Easter Carol . 370 
LATER POEMS 

To California 371 

A Memory of a Western Journey . . . .372 

Epithalamium 374 

In The Golden West 375 

Sextcnnial 377 

At A Daughter's Wedding 379 

Poem At Laureation 380 

Chicago 382 

"Laurel Crown That Camest to Me" ... 384 

Flood-Tide 386 

In Memory of Poe 388 

In The Southward Valley 391 

An Invocation 393 

To Roswell T. Spencer. A Bon Voyage . . 395 

"Like as a City Set on an Hill" .... 396 

Adios 398 

Colraine 400 

The Toiler 402 

Missouri — A State Song ...... 404 

Happy Hearts A-Maying 406 



INDEX XI 

O Motherland, Missouri 408 

The Old Black Mammy of The South . . . 410 

To The Craft at Ravenswood 411 

Frather, Vale . 413 

A Toast to Arkansas 414 

At Camp Shaver. The Unveiling of the Monu- 
ment to the Capital Guards 415 

Albania 417 

At The Marion 419 

On Presenting A Lambskin Apron . . . .421 

Off The Grand Banks of Newfoundland . . 423 

The Search For Truth. An Allegory ... 425 

Sewickley Heights 427 

At Panama 429 

A Christmas Wish 431 

At The Ruby Wedding of Judge and Mrs. H. C. 

Caldwell 433 

A Bridal Tribute 434 

The Century of Peace 436 

Armageddon 440 

AtOldKinsale 442 

Aux Drapeaux (To the Colors) . 444 

The Call 447 

In Picardy 449 

To Lafayette 450 

The Sailing of The Fleet 452 

Golden-Wedding Sonnet 454 

The Light of The Crypt 455 

The Diamond Jubilee, of Memphis Lodge No. 118 457 

Ex-Oriente Lux 460 



POEMS CONTAINED IN FIRST VOLUME 
Published 1878 



DOMBEY'S DREAM 

A VISION OF REMORSE 

In clouds that hover darkly o'er the mind 
Too often only poisoned dew we find. 
Who seeks seclusion, hid from human sight, 
Grows like the plant excluded from the light. 

Why hidden thus in mute and sombre walls, 

In solitude, where even breathing falls 

With startling echoes, sits a stern old man, 

With crouching form, and chin upon his hand? 

Why thus forbid the gleaming sunlight come, 

To break the reign of darkness and of gloom? 

Nor cheerfulness within, to drive away 

The double problem of a night in day. 

Can from such spot, with its unbroken calm, 

Spring up for grief a gently-healing balm? 

What could we be if round our joyous world 

Naught else but Night's black pinions had been furled? 

What if the light of moon, of sun, or star, 

Had not been sent to drive the dark afar? 

Can not association oft incline 

The yielding soul away from its design? 



/ DOMBEY S DREAM 

Are we not drawn by things that us surround, 

Till little of our native self is found? 

'Tis from the scenes amid which we are placed 

That deep effects are on our being traced. 

So, thus, repeated solitude and gloom 

Had made the man in manner like his room. 

Could wealth have purchased solace from all care; 

Could lofty pride have put to flight despair; 

Could frigid manners happiness supply, 

Or haughty mien have silenced misery's cry, 

Then might he have reveled deep in bliss. 

The world and nature gave him all of this. 

Yet these were worthless armor to repel 

The pangs of thoughts, that rose like ghosts from Hell; 

Of thoughts that flitted swiftly through his brain, 

That would not cease, but came and came again. 

" 'Tis thus that all has mocked me, and despised 

The care I took with what I chiefly prized! 

My stately mansion fails to win me peace; 

My grand display yet brings me no release 

From grief and woe. Yea, much I strove to gain 

A boundless wealth in labor, toil and pain, — 

Yea, heaped it up ! Yet to my boy-child's cry 

Of 'What is money?' I cannot reply. 

I know 'tis much ; that 'tis a moving power. 

But 'tis not all, no more than is the hour 

The day complete. And, then, how have I spurned 

The love for me that in my daughter burned! 

What fiendish impulse was it made me chill 

Her soft advances — all her ardor kill? 



DOM BEY S DREAM 

Why have I sorrowed her with cold neglect, 
As one that lived far down beneath respect? 
Oh, Florence, daughter! could your gentle heart 
Bear all these ills and not be torn apart? 
And she — the one to whom I gave my name — 
What words have I in which to cry the shame 
That she has brought upon my lofty pride, 
When scandal's tongue shall scatter far and wide 
How she has fled ? Oh, God, thou God of Night ! 
Hast thou no blast to sweep from human sight 
So woe-engulfed a wretch as I who pray? 
But no! I would be spared, if but a day: 
Be spared to do at least one gentle thing, — 
To seek my child and on her bosom fling 
My erring head, and pray her to forgive, 
O'erlook the miseries that I've made her live, 
That o'er my faults oblivion she may cast, 
And let my future recompense my past." 

Oh, blessed hope that decks the lives of men! 
'Tis ne'er too late from evil ways to bend. 
And one sincere good act may much repair, 
In cleansing spots of evil gathered there. 



>»^» 




REMEMBER, LOVE 

A SONG 

When moonbeams glance their silvery light 

Across the lake and river, 
It brings me back that tender night 

When last we sat together. 
Thy starlike eyes gazed into mine, 

And spake as tongue can never; 
So on me let their brightness shine, 

Remember, love, forever! 

Not oft we spake, for well we knew 

That, on the coming morrow, 
Across our sky of love so true 

Would pass a cloud of sorrow. 
It came, but cannot always be; 

Dark must give place to brighter. 
Then will our hearts, once light and free, 

Remember, love, be lighter! 

Few rays of sunlight round me shine, 

The path is dark before me; 
But let me know thy love is mine, 

I care not what comes o'er me. 
This heart within me burns the same, 

Years have not dimmed its fervor; 
And thus for thee will live its flame, 

Remember, love, forever! 




MEMORY'S ISLES 

Are there not verdant places in feeling 

Which never can wither away, 
Though our feet have gone far on our journey, 

Though our locks, once so bright, are now gray; 
And their beauty and bloom find never a tomb 

Till memory gives over her sway? 

Have you not seen the lily of morning 

With a gossamer film o'er it spread, 
When the dew-pearls upon it have clustered, 

And hang from each delicate thread? 
'Tis a flower as before; its loveliness more; 

And sweetly its perfume is shed. 

So Time weaves a web to our vision, 

Over scenes of delight in the past; 
And tear-drops upon it may gather, 

But yet it's the same scene at last. 
And down Time's swift river though float we forever, 

Their memories will cling to us fast. 

Such is often the lone consolation 

That steals o'er me when sorrow descends. 

The form of the pleasure may vanish, 
But the likeness my being attends. 

And at Memory's shrine will it ever be mine 
Till my life with eternity blends. 




ESTENOZA 

Draw near and see the clay that dressed 

A gift recalled unto the Giver: 
A heart at rest in a stout, brave breast; 

Once swelling high, now stilled forever. 

Long time the angry sea-wave's peak 

Had tossed him in its restless bounding; 

And there with shriek, and ravening beak, 

Came swooping gulls, his death-note sounding. 

Lashed firm and fast, by hempen band, 
To spars that oft their bearing shifted; 

And near at hand there lay the land, 
But ever on and on he drifted. 

Long days the sun's blaze on him burst, 

Borne on by wind and wave that passed him; 

With hunger cursed, and maddening thirst, 
Ashore the sea's long roll had cast him. 

Too faint for life's reviving play, 

With staggering thought of one he cherished, 

He gasping lay till evening gray, 
And in the twilight meanly perished. 



ESTENOZA / 

And one star came in the evening air, 

And stood o'er where the dead was lying. 

That star, so fair, had seen him swear 
His love should fade but with his dying; 

How here and there for wealth he hied, 

Strong in his faith and high endeavor; 
Seen ill betide whate'er he tried, 

And sad mischance beset him ever; 

Had seen him homeward turn his eyes, 

From far away in ocean sailing; 
The storm arise, under blackening skies, 

And his ship go down in the wind's loud wailing; 

And last had seen his oath fulfilled, 

The gift returned unto the Giver, 
His stout heart chilled, and ever stilled, 

But life and love went out together. 



She stands upon the swelling height 
As night-winds gather on the river, 

And still and bright, in the evening light, 

One star shines out with shimmering quiver. 

"Oh, deadly star in yon blue sky, 

Why did thy light e'er fall upon me? 

Did I but fly thy glittering eye 

His burning words had never won me. 



8 ESTENOZA 

"He sware his love thy life received, 
And thou and it should fade together; 

And I, deceived, his love believed 

Would, with thy light, shine on forever. 

"Lo, thou still shinest in thy sphere, 
But he sends back to me no token! 

And now 'tis near a weary year 

He breaks the faith his soul hath spoken. 

"Oh, silver star, ye shine so clear! 

Oh, load of life, ye wax so dreary! 
Why should I fear to change me here 

For the low bed that waits the weary? 

"Oh, darkness, close my sorrow keep! 

Oh, grave, with endless calm relieve me! 
Thou blessed deep, guard well my sleep, 

And in thy winding arms receive me!" 

The waves dash to the cliff-rock's site, 
Then close with momentary shiver. 

And still and bright, in the evening light, 
Yon star shines on with shimmering quiver. 

1875. 



>»«< 



4M^ 



IT IS SAID THERE'S AN ISLE IN THE 
RIVER OF TIME" 



It is said there's an isle in the river of Time, 

That is known as "the Long Ago." 
All gorgeous with verdure of beauty sublime, 
Where Memory's harp rings a musical chime, 

As the swift years onward flow. 

As that river I travel, that island I see 

From the Present begins to arise. 
On its verge joyous faces and fair ones there be, 
With a warm ready welcome extended to me, 

And these the isle's flowers comprise. 

For they give it a halo of happiness pure; 

They tinge it a delicate hue; 
They deck it with joys that will ever endure. 
Through the changes — aye, sorrows — that life brings as 
sure 

As the night brings the heaven's soft dew. 

And I'm sure that as onward the rolling years glide 

To their graves in Eternity's sea, 
That though here and there glimmer dim specks on the 

tide, 
They'll be naught when I count them, in beauty, beside 

What these moments will look like to me. 




APOSTROPHE TO THE YEAR 

Farewell, old year! And yet I bid thee stay 

One moment with me, ere thou speedst away; 

One instant, while upon thy fading face 

I cast one glance, thy dead events to trace. 

What see I there? As on some placid lake 

Doth sunshine, poured through boughs o'erhanging, make 

A checker-work of light and shadow, so 

Do joy and sorrow o'er thy surface flow. 

Where youthful Hope in brightness lent its smile, 

Its cheer is checked by contravening wile. 

Where fancy once her fairy palace built, 

There looms up now the sombre ghost of guilt; 

And evil deeds, grim skeletons of sin, 

Now haunt the place which once hath stainless been. 

And you, ye withered laurels on my brow, 

Plow few in number and how dead ye now! 

How different ye from expectation's glow! 

Alas ! Alas ! that ye should fall so low. 

What cruel cheats, oh dying year, were thine! 

What rosy hope, what fervent love was mine! 

What bitter pangs thy rolling months have brought! 

What thorns they gave for roses that I sought! 

And how couldst thou but dark and dreary shine, 

If these alone, oh passing year, were thine? 



10 



APOSTROPHE TO THE YEAR 11 

But yet thou wert not always doleful. No, 

Much was joy, however much was woe. 

Thou often o'er my solitude didst send 

The cheerful face of many a valued friend; 

And often thou didst bid me banish care, 

To seek amusement of the lovely fair ; 

Amid the dance's circle proudly gay, 

How often have I whirled the hours away! 

Cease, cease, my song! In verse so low of wing, 

I dare not seek the pleasing theme to sing. 

A world for thought lies in that glance I gave. 

Go, teeming graveyard! fall into thy grave. 

Then speed thee, New Year ! May we live to see 
Thy gliding hours on golden pinions flee, 
Thy days be days of joy and gladness ere 
Old Time shall bid thee too to disappear! 
So weave thy woof that with it ye may bring, 
In place of thorns, the tender flowers of spring; 
Bid War, with all its train of horrors, cease; 
Bid Hate be Love, and Discord yield to Peace; 
Bid Plenty sow her sweets with lavish hand, 
And reap full harvests from a bounteous land! 
Do these, oh year, and when thou too shalt fade, 
My humble harp shall mourn o'er thy decade. 



e^w^w 



ALECTA 



Here by this bank, a little will I rest; 

My fading strength is faint, and fainter growing. 
Here will I lie and watch the ruddy west, 

And the red monarch to his slumber going. 

This first short walk in the odor-laden air, 

Spiced with the breath from new hay-fields arisen, 

Is turning from Death's very entry, where 
I lay, but rose to break my sick-bed prison. 

My limbs, so long unused to exercise, 

Once good as the best, will bear me up no longer 
Until I rest; so low my vigor lies, 

So scant fulfills my craving to be stronger. 

Oh, for the abundant strength that once was mine! 

Lost in the doings of a day of terror. 
I digged the pit, and now, in youth's decline, 

I lie and suck the gall of mine own error. 

A short-lived error in mere lapse of time, 

But long, long coursed in its dread entailing. 

Yea, well I know that where my feet may climb, 
That one wild act will follow never failing. 



12 



ALECTA 13 

That though my tread should tend to lofty spot, 
Or humbler lie by rock, or over meadow, 

Some child, from that one dread mistake begot, 
Will dog my footsteps like my proper shadow. 

Dear Lord, we sin against thee, and thy grace 

Is not withheld us ; yet we are forgiven. 
We sin against ourselves, and lo, the trace 

Lives through the longest life beneath the heaven! 

Stamped as the clay, transformed to flinty rock, 
That rose in Time's remotest designation, 

Still bears the dintings of the iceberg's shock, 
Impressed amid the early earth's formation. 

If Error puts his ploughshare in our hearts, 
And drops the seed behind him in the furrow, 

His tilth remains, and nevermore departs, 
And grain springs up from where the seeds did burrow. 

Oh, vain regret! the knowledge that there lay 
Within my reach a prize of wondrous kindness 

I might have won ; but, in an evil day, 
I cast aside the treasure in my blindness. 

For through a garden in a happy hour 

I rambled, and a budding rose selected, 
But, as I reached my hand to pluck the flower, 

A poisonous asp a stinging wound inflicted. 



14 ALECTA 

For quick and hasty was the movement made ; 

Unwary I, and not with circumspection, 
Rushed headlong on where I should have delayed, 

And thus the serpent, coiled, escaped detection. 

Oh, the evil of these hasty minds! 

Does truth lie in the first impulsive flaming? 
Then may we say the target marksman finds 

His truest shot without the aid of aiming. 

Better the slow, the long-continued strain 
Of patient study to the subject lending, 

Than quick to strike, impelled by heated brain, 
At times to win, but more in ruin ending. 

How many lives there are to mine allied, 

Who fret and chafe at each imposed obstruction; 

Whose course some trifling fact has turned aside, 
And purblind rush they to their own destruction! 

The night draws on, and I must creep away 

To that dull couch whereon my weakness binds me ; 

Perhaps to lie and toss till nearly day, 

While the blank blackness of the room confines me. 

'Tis three days since Alecta has been there; 

But every day she sends some gracious token. 
Or books, or flowers, some dish of dainty fare, 

And thus the weary round of hours is broken. 



ALECTA 15 

Patience, dear love! The hope that springs from thee 
May win me back again my old position, 

In strength renewed. In this low time for me 
Thy love shall prove my worthiest physician. 

II. 

This thing of the memory puzzles us all ; 

This reviving of visions long fled. 
If a leaf do but flutter, a bird do but call, 
If the scent of a flower upon us do fall, 
Slight as the thing does it open the way 
For a thought on a long-buried object to play, 

And bid it arise from the dead. 

It needs for me only to breathe of this air, 

But to witness the evening decline, 
When the scent of the newly-mown hay lying there 
Calls up to my vision a scenery fair 
Of the day that has been, when the sun in the sky 
Beheld in his rounds not a happier than I, 

For the promise she gave to be mine. 

My love was a pearl of the feminine race. 

In her stature sufficiently tall, 
With a fair yellow hair and a finely-turned face, 
With a figure whose motion was exquisite grace, 
And a lip and a cheek that together did vie 
With the tint of the roses when summer is nigh ; 
And a mischievous merriment hid in her eye, 

More winning and lovely than all. 



16 ALECTA 

I had but to gaze on her beauty so fresh, 

But to glance at her womanly air, 
And oh! for the weakness in bosoms of flesh, 
I was snared as a captive in Love's silken mesh. 
Captive and bound in the conjuror's toils; 
For Love is a conqueror quick at his spoils, 

And he taketh his prey unaware. 

Oh, lover, love once! Let the Spirit Divine 
Sway the heart as the winds do the main: 
Aye, bathe in the light of it, drink it like wine, 
Drink deep of its lusciousness while it is thine. 
Love once! Let its forge-fires glow hissing and bright, 
Let it fill thy soul full of its warmth and its light, 
Be the sun-flame of noonday, the moon-glare of night. 
Love once! It comes never again. 

Ah, what shall declare between gladness and pain, 

How a pale star of Hope would abide, 
As I pleaded unceasing again and again 
For the love that would make me the richest of men; 
Till I pressed her clear cheek growing ruby and warm, 
Enzoned in the ring of her glorious arm, 

When she promised herself as my bride. 

Oh, the passionate thrill of that moment expressed 

In the flood of the sudden surprise, 
As I folded her close to my pulsating breast, 
And kissed off the tears that her ardor confessed! 
And the full light of happiness circled me round 
As I gazed on her beauty, and, gazing, I found 

The new look of love in her eyes. 



ALECTA 17 

And many an eve in the soft summer light, 

With the disc of the sun dropping low, 
Did we stray where the rivulet speeded its flight, 
As we watched the blown reapers file home for the night. 
Through the long lanes in the tall swaying wheat 
Did we stroll hand in hand, and our eyes woul oft meet 

With a fervid and passionate glow. 

Oft did we lag while the large yellow moon 

Clomb the bowl of her easterly slope: 
And the downy-winged hours fled away all too soon, 
But left us a pathway with happiness strewn. 
And Faith-in-the-Future, with presaging Light, 
Sought out for our vision gay homes of delight, 

That were wrought from a roseate Hope. 



Hi. 



I noticed one morning, in passing before 

The gate at the end of the long parterre, 
That a visitor stood by the great hall door, 

And a bright-burnished equippage glittered out there. 
I knew him at once by his flashing display, — 

In truth, over-flashing, — all tawdry and fine. 
We had met, but I feared not he stood in my way, 

Or endangered my case with this jewel of mine, 
For Love was the anchor I reckoned my stay, 

While he pinned his faith to a coarse show and shine. 



18 ALECTA 

Aye, he was a rival. Between us, 'twas clear, 

'Twas the jay matching flight with the swallow: 
The aye-aye in speed with the tawny wild deer, 

That flits like the wind through the hollow. 
But what if the sloth should yet wrest her from me ? 

In the course of the world there have been sadder sights. 
In the matings of men, it is common to see 

That weddings are made between eagles and kites; 
But the joinder of these two would properly be 

One where a swan with a vulture unites. 

For such a one was he. The commonest taste 

Must have felt shocked at the best of his ways. 
To see but his dress and his manner debased 

Were enough, I should think, for the rest of one's days, 
For his vulgar coarse look, and his low sloping head, 

Showed him unmannerly, stolid and dull. 
Yet gladly her father would witness her wed 

This dolt, for the reason his pocket was full. 
For, with her grim sire, a pocket well fed 

Rendered a legion of shortcomings null. 

To ward off the happening of what, with his pains, 

Might possibly come in an unadvised day, 
If the great heap of his easy-made gains 

Should take themselves pinions and vanish away. 
Easy made, do I say? The half rightly is mine! 

For this safe schemer, no great while ago, 
Showed to my father an enterprise fine, 

With high-heaping profit to one who would go 
Into a thing of its simple design, 

Where the yield for the risking would ratably grow. 



ALECTA 19 

And his were the sinews for making the test; 

His were the means to push onward the scheme: 
So chattels, and lands, and our home with the rest, 

Stood pledged for the loans that were furnished by him. 
And so when the time for this prophesied yield 

To dawn, with its lustre of money, had come, 
It fled from the clutch like the leaves of the field 

In the rush of the wind! Not a tenth of the sum 
That my father laid out had its outcome revealed; 

And he sat, fairly maddened, all speechless and dumb. 

All speechless and dumb with the ruin that fell, 

Like the fire from a cloud, on his hardly-earned store. 
But there yet did a hope in our needfulness dwell, 

For the pledge over-valued the loaning, and more. 
But when a man falls and is low on the ground, 

What can his desperate struggles avail? 
Can he loosen the meshes with which he is bound ? 

Can his mightiest efforts unaided prevail? 
And with his heart bursting, my poor parent found 

His last vestige swept in the auctioneer's sale. 

Engulfed in the maelstrom that people call debt. 

Gone, all gone, — vanished, — lands, houses, and pelf! 
And her father the buyer. Can I ever forget 

How he said he must do so or suffer himself? 
Oh, venture that cost me what tears shed in vain! 

That cost me the head of my fountain: for when 
Through a year had he walked in his heart-breaking pain, 

He slept; and I stood alone, penniless then; 
Only endowed with my hands and my brain, 

And that pluck that belongs to American men. 



20 ALECTA 

Aye, with one other thing, — with a proneness to rhyme. 

Gifted men call it; and, not to speak evil 
Of so gracious a thing, I have thought oftentime 

I am the rather possessed of a devil, 
Which seizes my moods, and inquiet awakes, 

And pursuing a phantom I mutter and mope; 
My tongue is benumbs, and my slumber it breaks, 

Absorbed in a phantasy blindly I grope, 
Till the spirit has done with its torment, and takes 

Such form of expression as lies in its scope. 
Oh ! the torture to lie in the stillness of night 

With an eye denied slumber, but closed as in sleep, 
While a million of atoms of fire in the sight, 

Whirling and spinning, incessantly sweep! 
Oh! were it not better to live like the swain, 

In a dull round of labor, but stalworth in frame, 
Than be bound as a slave to this trick of the brain, 

Like those we name Poet in pages of fame? 
Aye, surely this day, when the sound of his strain 

Falls where its witchery long has grown tame. 
Ah ! well ! what we are is no product of ours. 

"It is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves." 
Like the garments that clothe us are fashioned our powers, 

For the thinker who thinks, and the digger who delves. 
Let us work as we are, with the hand and the head ! 

Let us throttle Mischance with a lion's strong paw! 
So I turned from the grave where I buried my dead, 

And sought the first silent seclusion I saw, 
The solace, but oft with fatigue overspread, 

That lies in the road of the reading of Law. 



ALECTA 



21 



But the ample rewards of the Law are delayed 

Till the foot-weary climber is dusty and gray; 
And I but a step in the journey had made 

Through the dry fields where its pasturage lay. 
And this, in the eyes of her easy-riched sire, 

Was sufficient offence, if no other there was, 
To slight my essay when he saw me aspire 

To the hand of his daughter ; and yet graver flaws 
He pretended to find, to awaken his ire, 

When he saw that she shared not so trifling a cause. 

Aye, I heard, as unpleasant things come to the ear, — 

The swifter, indeed, when the subject is worse, — 
That he mentioned my name with a scoff and a sneer ; 

But he favored the suit of this dolt of the purse. 
That his earnest persuasions, his threats, his commands, 

He in the cause of this Dives had used. 
But love is a fire whose earnestness stands 

In a steadier flame when by others abused; 
Never smothered by buffets from alien hands ; 

Like the chamomile, growing the faster when bruised. 

Leave a woman alone in these dainty affairs, 

To do just the reverse of the cunningest scheme. 
A deep self-assertion her character bears 

At the slightest dispelling of love's tender dream: 
A righteous resentment at freedom denied 

By officious in meddling that others display; 
Though I gave to Alecta a higher than pride 

At her own independence in having her way. 
So it was, whate'er cause, that with her on my side, 

I walked as a lord walks in recognized sway. 



22 ALECTA 

Till I went to the mansion as often before, 

And stood in the light of the vestibule dim. 
At my ring came a servant attending the door, 
And heard me my inquiries sullen and grim. 
My love sent excuse and a letter for me. 

I stood by the hall lamp and shivered its seal. 
Ah, Gods, what a demon-face there did I see! 

A coldest dismissal, — a vapid appeal 
For my friendship. Ha ! friendship where love used to be ? 

I crumpled the paper and ground with my heel ! 

IV. 

Was it grief that I bore? 

Was it rage, was it hate? 
As I passed from the door; 

As I strode from the gate. 

Went I forth in the night. 

Up and down, up and down; 
Did I go till the light 

For the hills wove a crown. 

And I cursed of my Fate, 

And I stamped with my feet. 

Was there balm adequate 
For the sting of this cheat? 

Has the world, in its way, 

More of good or of strife, 
When the weight of a day 

Overlies all a life? 



ALECTA 23 



Let us welcome the fact, 

More of good without doubt. 

Sweet was mine with this act 
Of Alecta left out. 

But a Pleasure's a thing 
That is gone at a breath. 

Like the sound of the string, 
In its birth is its death. 

While a Grief, standing tall, 
Sighted far o'er the plain, 

Throwing shade over all, 
Lives again and again. 

And a bell through my head 
Rang a clamboring round. 

"Never thine, never wed!" 
Grew the voice of the sound. 

"Never wed, never thine!" 
Sang the pulse in my ears, 

Till I well could incline 
To a weak burst of tears. 

So my step never ceased, 

Up and down, up and down, 

Till the sun in the East 

For the hills wove a crown. 



24 ALECTA 



V. 



Here I found me by a harbor, in a sullen, angry mood, 
With a loosened flood of passion flowing in my heated 

blood. 
I had sworn a deep avowal that my heart should scorn to 

grope 
In the darkness of the shadow that had fallen on my hope. 
I would seek some other country, and, in wild adventure's 

reign, 
Drown the vision of Alecta in the whirling of the brain. 
Here before me lay a vessel filled for voyage outward 

bound, 
All her wings the breeze embracing, all her trunk alive 

with sound. 
In an hour I stood upon her ; and it calmed my heat to feel 
How the sweeps of briny water gurgled up behind her 

keel ; 
When I saw the light in spangles on the bosom of the 

wave, 
When there flapped a flag replying to the signs the 

shoremen gave; 
Saw the distant landscape sliding, growing dimmer on the 

sight, 
Saw the rugged cliffs receding, till I lost them in the night. 

Out she swept; I cared not whither. Where to me was 

now my home, 
Rather than the leaping billow, better than the Ocean's 

foam? 



ALECTA 25 

I who fled to keep from thinking of the cheats that Love 

had wrought, 
Filling all my fount of promise with the dregs of bitter 

thought. 

On she swept, I recked not whither, under many a 

shifting star; 
Many a sun in flaming splendor burned the water-line 

afar ; 
Scudding on by isle and isthmus, touching at some jutting 

cape, 
Blushing land of summer flowers, merry land of ripening 

grape ; 
Borne is forward-reaching plunges now into the open sea, 
Now by port and headland passing, skimmed she onward 

merrily ; 
On by peak and promontory, till the vessel's sides we felt 
Slipping over reefs of coral lying in the Torrid belt. 

And one morn when humid vapors veiled the sun's slow- 
wheeling shield, 

Vivid o'er the faint horizon stood a spectre form revealed. 

There a ship like ours was sailing; looming huge in hull 
and mast, 

Rocking with a wavy quiver on the clouds that flitted past. 

Swept the wind through misty tackle, swept the breeze 
through phantom sail, 

Straining through the hazy rigging, where the sounds of 
motion fail. 



26 ALECTA 

Then a fear fell on the sailors, such as in the battle's peal, 

Rushing bolt and scattered splinters never yet had made 
them feel. 

"See," they cried, "the Flying Dutchman ! See the death's- 
head at her prow! 

Holy Christ, be swift to save us! we are but as dead 
men now!" 

So before a dim ideal fades the vigor of the man. 

Some had hid, and some were flying; some were praying 
as they ran. 

Slaves to blinded superstition, rugged lips began to pray: 

Lips that knew not supplication since the dim-remembered 
day 

When at loving mothers' teaching they had uttered in- 
fant prayer, 

Save that awful shock of tempest smote the sea and rilled 
the air. 

I, of all the group that gathered at the vessel's edging-rail, 
Saw no ghost my skin to prickle, felt no fear my cheek to 

pale. 
Fended with the truths of science I could spurn this wild 

dismay, 
Look with lip and nostril curling at the weakness of 

their way; 
I could gaze with lingering wonder at a vision instanced 

rare, 
Born from rays of light refracting through the strata of 

the air. 



ALECTA 27 

Yet, of many-membered Error, this I reckoned not the 

chief. 
These were far above despising for a juggle of belief. 
Not to them the gains of scholars; but their chart of life 

had planned 
Bronzed skin and toughened muscle, and the cordage- 
hardened hand. 
Narrowed in a life of labor how knew they of laws of 

light, 
All the mystic theme of optics, and illusions of the sight? 
Or if youth a space had yielded Culture's beckoning hand 

to clasp, 
Who may gather all the treasures that lie hoarded in her 

grasp ? 
For the field of thought and knowledge ever widens in 

its spread; 
Ever grows a doubling burden for the learning of the head. 
All the world is filled with printing: books and theses 

multiply, 
And the scholar dwindles Nature, overtaxing brain and 

eye. 
Though he bends him to his reading till the living 

essence flies, 
Doth he gain — a dip of knowledge from the sea that 
round him lies! 

And I thought me what is Science? All the boasted 

things we know 
Leave us but as blinded insects groping in the dark below. 



28 ALECTA 

Where hath Art, by facts discovered, holding Truth's 

divining-rod, 
Proved the corners of the morning, spying of the face of 

God? 
Who hath spun the fine alchemy, wrought of figments of 

the mind, 
That hath brought to light the hidden links that soul to 

body bind? 

Where the penetrating miner, who from murky shafts 

hath brought 
Ores to solve the hid enigma, baffling ages, WHAT IS 

THOUGHT? 
Who can tell the source of action in the drawing of the 

breath ? 
Who can tell the spirit's vesture in the silent Isles of 

Death? 
Wisdom? How shall she be rated, when the utmost 

light of men 
Meets eclipse on every upland, dims at every mead and 

fen? 
This the ball for us constructed moves upon a wondrous 

line, 
Plan of self-adjusting balance, built for weal of human 

kind. 
Check and counter-check are working; man and plant 

and living thing, 
Gauged by rule of adaptation, in a governed order swing. 

Tree and leaf and plant and grasses as a posted sentry 
stand, 



ALECTA 29 

Strangling forms of cloaked diseases creeping softly 

through the land. 
They, with tubes and pipes of suction, on our voided 

poisons feed, 
Chemists in the scheme of Being, cleansing for the 
human need. 

Man to boast? when all the distance that his keenest 

thought can probe 
Is a single breath of ether from the space that wraps the 

globe ; 
Is the snow-flake on the meadow to the cloud that covers 

all; 
Is the ripple in the current to the roaring water-fall. 

All the varied vegetation springing in the spacious earth, 
Moving in the ordered method of the Will that gave it 

birth, 
Finds a place, a form, and manner, suited to the divers 

spheres, 
Filling out the ranks of Nature, and the cycles of the 

years. 

*In the fever-heated tropics palm and jungle-clump are 

made 
Wide in leaf and tuft of feather, casting deeper belts of 

shade. 
Through the sweep of cooler circles falls the leaf at 

autumn time, 

*In the preparation of this portion of the poem I acknowledge my 
indebtedness to Dr. Chadbourne's admirable work on Nature Theology, 
particularly Chapter v., for suggestions. 



30 ALECTA 

Shade when summer suns are glowing, light in winter's 
hoary prime. 

Higher on, in frigid climate, barren land of ice and snow, 

Rear the larch and lofty spruces, wailing pines and hem- 
lock grow, 

Fit with lithe and supple branches, bending to the weight 
they bear, 

When the lakes are locked in ice, and sifting fleece is all 
the air; 

Splinter-leaved, compact of stature; roofing in the shape 
of cone; 

Built to stand the rigid winter, crisping in the northern 
zone. 

Science, with her shortened plummet, moving vaguely in a 
dream, 

Can but sound the fewest shallows, in the wide-extend- 
ing scheme. 

So I mused me. And the vision, fading slowly, now was 
gone. 

I was left to nurse my wonder, and the vessel bounded on. 

Plains we saw with groves of lemon, land of date and 
spice we passed, 

Winds that stole a rich aroma, all their pelf upon us cast ; 

Found we birds of novel figure, plumed in garb of won- 
drous dye, 

Myriad shells of pearly polish on the hardened beaches lie. 

All the earth was gay and happy. Only I a burden bore. 
Only I, amidst its brightness, clanking chains of sorrow 
wore. 



ALECTA 3 1 

For the ghost of Recollection, thousand visaged, haunted 

me 
And my spirit, vague and empty, in the silence of the sea. 
Oh, the hateful, hateful pauses in the heaving of the deep ! 
When the floods of stinging memories came, and came, and 
would not sleep. 

Now returning breezes drive us to the distant-lying lee, 

And we cleave a track of fire through a phosphorescent sea. 

Nearing now the rising mainland, hither drawn by sud- 
den chance, 

Drove we in and cast the anchor, at a port of Southern 
France. 



VI. 



Ha, on my life! 
What sounds are these that fill the throbbing air? 
Some noise of holiday, or country fair, 

This drum and fife. 

There banners stream, 
And bugle blasts are dying far away. 
I will ashore, and see this gala day 

Of sunny gleam. 

Ha, soldiers there! 
And long lines glitter on the dress-parade! 
And all of martial splendor is displayed 

In sunlit air. 



32 ALECTA 

Long pennants dance, 
The muskets glimmer and the sabres click ; 
The trumpet shrilleth to my very quick 

As ranks advance. 

Streamed through the camp, 
The nodding busby and the waving plume, 
The prancer glistening from his careful groom, 

In squadrons tramp. 

This is no sport, 
No idle play to charm the village churl, 
And make the tardy-moving moments whirl 

In faster sort. 

What means it all? 
These sights and sounds are 'wildering strange to me. 
I heard no cause, when sailing on the sea, 

That for them call. 

I ask; I find. 
Huzza! Huzza! Just fitted to my hand! 
A cloud of war has bursted o'er the land, 

With lightening lined. 

Her border passed, 
The German hosts are swarming on her soil ; 
And back her huge leviathans recoil, 

In panic cast. 



ALECTA 

And to the front 
These troops will push on in a fevered heat, 
To deal a blow in turn for Worth's defeat, 

In battle's brunt. 

Enough for me! 
Since maids are false, and I have none to care 
If I should fall, what hinders me to dare 

What is to be? 

Enough for me! 
I give myself unto a forming line, 
And France's contest now I make as mine 

Right willingly. 

Armed for the fray, 
I stand accoutered as a fresh recruit; 
I give the passing chieftain staid salute, 

Then march away. 

VII. 

Through all my veins a shock is sped, 

I feel a sudden start; 
The bounding pulses leave my head, 

And cluster round my heart. 
The first quick burst of leaden hail 

Comes hissing from a line of fire; 
One instant feels my courage quail, 

And then I find it mounting higher . 



33 



34 ALECTA 

Far to the right our thunders roar, 
And tear the line with shell and shot, 

And sow the trampled sod with gore 
That drenched the field of Gravelotte. 

A sulphur cloud the vision blinds, 

And hides us from the foe; 
All day the tide of battle winds, 

And wanders to and fro. 
And we can see the musket's flash, 

And shakes the earth beneath our feet, 
As madly on the squadrons dash, 

Or back are thrown in wild retreat. 
Long curving lines slope o'er the sward, 

With clenching teeth and musket set, 
And down upon the foe are poured, 

In lines of levelled bayonet. 

And forward with the mass I sprung; 

But as I onward bound, 
A whistling sphere leaps through my lung, 

And bears me to the ground. 
A flood of blood streams down my blouse; 

A mist before my vision swims ; 
I seek my fainting sense to rouse, 

But cannot rise for languid limbs. 
With plunging shot the turf is torn, 

In heaps around me as I lie, 
Till from the darkening field I'm borne, 

With even chance to live or die. 



ALECTA 35 

VIII. 

At last, at last, the war is done, 

And France has lost: 
Her fortune falling like the sun, 

At grievous cost. 

And I had languished on my bed, 

In hospital, 
When scores there were of happier dead 

In funeral pall. 

For there I lay, a wreck in frame, 

A wreck in weal; 
A wound that all my strength did claim, 

And would not heal. 

No tie, no kin, in that strange land, 

Nor any here; 
But some were buried by my hand, 

And they were dear. 

I wished again to cross the deep, 

And here to die; 
And when my eyelids closed in sleep 

By them to lie. 

Most fitting did it seem to me 

That on the ground 
Where hope was crushed for me should be 

My grass-grown mound. 



36 ALECTA 

Would, when she strolled the churchyard through, 

She grief express 
For one poor atom whom she slew 

With faithlessness? 

That land of France did not forget 

Me in her pain; 
She gave me aid, and safely set 

Me here again. 

IX. 

It was scarcely a day they had laid me at home, 

When the word was brought to me Alecta had come. 

Had come? And to see me? Aye, if she has prayed, 

Why let her come in to the wreck she has made! 

I saw as she came, in the blackest of lace, 

That sorrow had saddened the look of her face. 

And was it for me this full mourning gown? 

And was it for me that her tears trickled down? 

She lifted her veil and uttered a shriek, 

And rushed to my arms before I could speak. 

My thin wasted cheek she wildly caressed, 

While she tenderly kept from my poor wounded breast. 

And then in her claspings and sobbings I learned 

How our brightness of day unto blackness had turned. 

And oh curse on the folly, oh curse on the flight, 
I made in the haste of that miserable night! 
I sped, and left nothing behind me that said 
Aught of my going or whither I fled; 



ALECTA 37 

No mention of place in the sun's burning track, 
From which she could bid me to hasten me back, 
To tell me the letter, though writ with her hand, 
Was done to accede to her father's demand, 
And at his dictation; but meaning in all 
To have seen me in person, the words to recall : 
That her messenger sought me by rise of the dawn, 
With word to come to her, and lo! I was gone. 
That her father, when seized with a sickness he lay, 
And nigh unto death, had besought her to pray 
A forgiveness to him for the wrong he confessed 
In his thwarting the passion that kindled her breast; 
And gave us his blessing, as she knelt by his side, 
With his last feeble gasping for breath ere he died. 

Tears, burning tears, be ye rage or of grief, 
Tears, springing tears, oh, I feel your relief! 
Darling of mine, I will live, if the will 
By the force of resolve can enliven me still ! 
Inspired by the sight of thy beauty and truth, 
I will yet gather up shattered fragments of youth. 
I will live, oh my love, — live to cancel in time 
The sorrows that clouded our earlier prime; 
Live in the sunlight of love to repair 
The evil that came from my hasty despair. 
But alas! for the wretch who is broken by fate. 
Alas! for the creature who loves, but must wait 
While the coveted years from his open hand slip, 
And the cup of possession recedes from his lip. 




FROM A NEW YEAR CAROL 

JANUARY i, 1 87 1. 

I saw, one eve at set of summer's sun, 

A sight to make the hottest blood-vein run 

With horror cold: a game 'twixt Life and Death; 

The fate of thousands hanging on a breath. 

The destiny of Europe was the stake. 

Life took the dice, and lo! his hand did shake. 

He cast them; lost; and Death, with sickening joy, 

To get his gains did fiendish arts employ. 

At his command two princes drew the sword, 

And thousands followed at those princes' word. 

Then Death's awful carnival began, 

And precious blood in gurgling currents ran. 

Death-dealing shells rushed screaming through the air, 

Proclaiming of the thirsty slayer there; 

The light of houses flush the midnight sky; 

Their crackling flames engulf th' expiring cry 

Of babe and mother, whose untimely end 

No arm is stretched, or bosom, to defend. 

Lo! France's eagle, borne before the host 
Of victorious Prussia, sees her lost; 
Sees her armies scattered at a blow, 
Despite the valor her Douay can show; 
Her strongest men surrendered to her foes; 



FROM A NEW YEAR CAROL 39 

McMahon thrown on whom her hopes repose. 

From Strasbourg's tower, and o'er the crumbling moats 

Of Metz's fortress, Prussia's ensign floats ; 

Nor yet disaster's whelming tide abates, 

Impatient legions swarm at Paris' gates. 

Great God! shall mankind e'er that moment see 
When nations shall through all the world be free? 
When not because another says they're hurled 
To bloody battle, more like puppets twirled; 
When, if they wish, swords may forever rust ; 
When, if they war, 'tis that they will, not must? 

God speed the day, my friend, God speed the day! 

'Tis a thing that you and I may never see. 
But for all that yet we ought to pray 

That in His providence such a thing may be. 
But while I speak of Death, you will agree 

I now will tell of one whose wide-spread grief 
Bespoke a good and great man's spirit free 
From out its dwelling in our midst so brief. 
'Tis the gentler virtues mourning for their chief. 

I've been where death showered, 

Like to rain crimson red; 
Where the pestilence lowered, 

Like to clouds overhead. 
But these, with their horror, 
Fail largely to borrow 
A half the world's sorrow 

That Dickens is dead. 



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WHAT ART THOU, YEAR? 41 

(From the same.) 

"WHAT ART THOU, YEAR?" 

"I am the son of one," he said, 

"Whose business is destroying; 
And he and I together work, 

Our energies employing. 
We crumble empires, temples, shrines, 

Which man, in vain endeavor, 
Has reared upon the silly hope 

That they would last forever. 
Oh, what vain and silly hope, 

That they would last forever! 

"We lay our touch upon the young, 

And lo! their locks are hoary. 
We do but nod at palaces, 

And gone is all their glory. 
There's not a foeman in the world 

That we cannot dissever, 
Except the sea, whose mighty swell, 

Defeats our strength forever: 
Except the sea, whose rolling swell, 

Defeats our strength forever. 

"As we pursue our onward march 

No power can delay us. 
Our ruthless footsteps scorn the cries 

Men make with hope to stay us. 
We neither halt nor stop our tread; 



42 WHAT ART THOU, YEAR? 

Our step is laggard never; 
From earth's first moments thus we've gone, 

And thus we'll go forever. 
Yea, thus from Nature's morn we've marched, 

And thus we'll go forever. 

"My life is like the life of man. 

In four parts they divide it. 
First childhood; youth; then manhood; age; 

Man's is the same beside it. 
My father's name is TIME: and mine 

The YEAR. Even I must sever 
My thread of life whene'er he calls; 

Yea, I must go forever. 
Hark! Hark! he calls! There, I must go! 

Yea, I must go forever!" 

EPIGRAM 

THE SEARCH OF DIOGENES 

In search, with light in lantern pent, 
Diogenes his moments spent. 
To find an honest man he went, 
But tired of the experiment. 



HYMN 

Sung at the Opening Services of Christ Church Chapel, little Rock, 
Arkansas, November 5, 1876. 

Air— "Old Hundred." 



Oh, Father, bless this sacred place, 
Which for Thy glory now we rear; 

And may the riches of Thy grace, 
Be on Thy people gathered here! 

11. 
Here we would seek the Church, Thy bride, 

In this fair fane of bright array. 
Oh, draw us, Savior, near thy side, 

That we may see Thou art the way! 

hi. 
Incline our hearts to seek Thine aid, 

And turn our thoughts to things above! 
May numbers at this shrine be made, 

To feel the sweetness of Thy love! 

IV. 

So teach us, Lord, our faith to cast 
Upon Thy Word, which firmly stand, 

That we may gain, when life is past, 

A home with Thee not made with hands. 



4?, 



A CHRISTENING TOKEN 

To Annie MacDonald Cockrill 



"Bring violets for a maiden dead!" 

So ran the poet Shelley's lay. 
What shall I bring to deck thy head, 

Thou who art only born to-day ? 

II. 
Not flowers from the summer mead, 

The tinted tuft from autumn heath; 
Some more excelling thing I need 

To match the light that lies beneath 

in. 
The Master's cross upon thy brow. 

For from His high abiding-place 
Christ bent His look on thee but now, 

And crowned thee with His richest grace, 

IV. 

To teach that crown succeeds to cross 
As step by step our lives unfold; 

Like, as in native ores, the dross 
Is mingled with the finer gold. 



44 



A CHRISTENING TOKEN 45 

V. 

For who would unto strength attain 
Must bear the weight of being weak. 

And who can hope the prize to gain 
Except that bowed in toil he seek? 

VI. 

So hence from thy baptismal morn 

May you, oh child, as years increase, 

Through sun and shade, through flowers and thorn, 

Find "lilies of eternal peace!" 
1876. 



*££>%£ 



DANGER 



Softly he her ripe cheek presses, 

Gazes in her eyes of brown, 
Toys a moment with her tresses, 

Toys a moment, — and looks down. 
She is sitting still and pensive, 

Matching each his gusty sighs; 
But she is not apprehensive, 

Love is mantling in his eyes. 
Pledged they are not yet, but often 

Have they shown in hundred signs, 
Little things that love will soften, 

Where a cold restraint confines. 
Touched he is with just sufficient 

Of the heavenly spirit's flame 
Not to make his suit deficient, 

And his ardor to proclaim. 
Oh! but his is earnest truly, — 

So she fancies in her mind; 
And she thinks he loves her duly, 

And her heart repays in kind. 



Backward turn, oh, trustful maiden! 

Shun the clifl beneath thy feet; 
Ere thy heart, with sorrow laden, 

Bows and breaks in grief complete. 
Oh! he now may act in honor, 

Naught but truth his soul may know. 



46 



DANGER 47 

Wrecked! if she relies upon her 

Own weak means to keep him so. 
Passion is a mighty giant, 

Raging like the rushing storm: 
Honor is a willow pliant, 

Bending when the blood is warm. 
When one treads that kingdom's portal 

Where this spirit dwells within, 
He must needs be more than mortal 

If he feels no hint of sin. 
He who launches in the river, 

Where the cataract loudly calls, 
Feels his light bark whirl and shiver, 

And then tumbles o'er the falls. 



Graves there be by green-banked meadows; 

Graves there be on uplands brown; 
Graves in yew-trees' dusky shadows; 

Tombs in every burg and town, 
Whence come voices, low and lonely: 

"No intent of sin was there. 
I began in honor only, 

But I ended in despair!" 



-mt- 



"WE SAT BESIDE THE RUSHES" 

i. 
We sat beside the rushes, 

When the summer day was fair ; 
Her face, suffused with blushes, 

Peeped through her golden hair. 
My arm was drawn around her, 
And her cheek lay next to mine; 
And I within my bosom felt 

That love was half divine. 

ii. 
Oh limber reeds and rushes, 

Will ye outlive this love? 
When death our heart-beat hushes, 

Will ye still wave above? 
Oh shallow murmuring streamlet, 

That ripplest on in glee, 
Wilt thou not change, and dry, and cease, 
Ere that this love shall flee? 

in. 
Lo, now beside the rushes, 

In the evening's hush I stray; 
The streamlet sings and gushes 

Just as it did that day; 
The reeds are green and bending, 

But her I do not spy ; 
For since that day she's changed her mind, 

Has changed — and so have I. 
1877 



48 



TO JOHN G. WHITTIER 

On the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday, December 17, 1877. 



Seventy winter snows have left 

No frost about thy heart. 
The same sweet spirit that we knew, 
As the rill that flowed thy whole life through, 

Still shows thee as thou art. 

Thy song is of the inner life, 

And therefore is it sweet. 
There's no kind pulse in the human soul 
But in thy high thought we behold 

Thine own in union beat. 

Like Alpine shepherds, when at dusk 

They sound the evening horn, 
In circling echoes far below 
The sounds leap down and ringing go 

Unto the valleys borne. 

So from the height which thou hast gained 

Thou givest a pleasing note, 
Which down the years shall circle on. 
Through generations grown and gone 

Will its soft vibrations float. 

Poet! I have not seen thy face, 
Nor clasped thy kindly hand: 



49 



50 TO JOHN G. WHITTIER 

Yet in my heart a love hath sprung, 
Because of much that thou hast sung, 
When I its beauties scanned. 

And I can warmly wish to thee 

That, in the coming time, 
Thou, hale, through years may'st yet be spared 
To feed the board where we have shared 

Thy rhythm and thy rhyme. 



>»«« 



THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 

A lawyer sat beside his office fire, 

Toward the dying of a winter day; 

A dark dull day of mingled clouds and rain. 

His hair had caught the floating mist of years; 

His face the marks of never-idle Time. 

And round the room were rows of dusty books, 

And countless piles of papers: open desks, 

With bulging letters in the pigeon-holes, — 

The scattered chips struck from his daily work : 

The life-long task of slow-revolving years. 

And near him, elbow-deep in papers, sat 

A younger man, a tyro in the art. 

The elder laid aside his heavy tome, 

And gazed awhile intently at the flame. 

Then rousing from his revery, he said : 

"My son ! I would that you should find a way 

To lead your feet to name and to renown 

In goodly time. I would you clasped the hand 

Of high ambition ; yet so held your course 

In close adhesion to the strictest right 

Report should rather find you than you her. 

"And be not over-hasty after Fame. 
Be patient, work and wait, and it will come. 
For either they who force its native growth, 
From having made it flower over-soon 



51 



52 the counsellor's tale 

Do sooner fall to withered leaves; or else, 
To lash its coming into quicker speed, 
Use questionable means: nor keep in sight 
The finer sense that parts the right and wrong, 
The thing forbid and thing permissible. 

"I mind me well of Malcomb Bayner. Young, 

Ambitious, ardent, capable; too hot 

To wait the slow coming of a clientage, 

And eager, by some sudden stroke, to stand 

Full in the front of action and of men. 

And ere long the wished-for moment came. 

A criminal stood on trial in the court 

For the offence of shedding human blood. 

The commonwealth's attorney, tall and strong, 

With sympathy for tyros in the ranks, 

And more to give the means of prominence 

Than for the aid an embryo could yield, 

Requested him to join the people's cause, 

And fall in with the prosecution, as 

Assistant counsel in the State's behalf. 

And Malcomb, listening to Ambition's voice, 

And seeing here the start from which, ere long, 

He hoped to reach the goal, — without the thought 

The thing was asked in kindness, not in need, — 

A moment paused, but rendered his assent, 

And entered as a counsel for the State. 

"Aye, sure if ever culprit did deserve 
A prosecution earnest, this one did. 
For on a hot and breathless August day, 
When the sun blazed fiercely overhead, 



THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 53 

And parched and cracked the arid plains, 
He came upon the outskirts of the town, 
To where a woman kept a little store, 
And made a trifling purchase. She, to give 
The necessary change, displayed a box 
Before the covetous visage of the man, — 
A common box of pasteboard, colored blue, 
Wherein was kept the earnings of the store, — 
And raking in its contents, found the pence, 
And gave them him, and slowly he withdrew. 
At nightfall, when the evening lamps were lit, 
He came again, with cunning worded tale: 
Her husband, working in a distant field, 
Had fallen down of sunstroke. Being now 
Somewhat restored, had sent for her to come, 
And bring with her the box, for fear of theft. 

"She, without thought to analyze the tale, 

Or question of its probabilities, 

Hearing only in her woman's heart 

The cry of him she loved, in haste 

Prepared herself, and gathered up the box, 

And called unto her daughter, 'Come, my child! 

Your father needs us! Come, and go with me!' 

Then something whispered in her heart, — the voice 

Of God or angel, knowing all before. 

And so she paused: 'I will not take the child. 

And then the man urged, 'Better take the child.' 

But 'No,' she said, 'I will not take her now. 



54 the counsellor's tale 

But there, a fellow-workman, whom I know, 
Will come and bring her. I am ready. Come.' 
Again the man urged: 'Better take the child.' 

"Then forth she hurried in the starlit night. 

And when half-way, amid a lonely waste, 

The fiend upraised a hatchet, dealt a blow 

That crushed her skull, and felled her to the earth. 

And in the struggle wrenching from her grasp 

The cursed lucre, price of human blood, 

He left her dead, with features fixed and white 

Upturned to the silent sky, and fled. 

"When morning crept up o'er the hills of gray, 
The husband, having rested overnight, 
As was his wont when darkness drawing on 
Had found him with his task unfilled, set out 
To join the family at the morning meal. 
And by the roadside, lying cold and white, 
He found her, with her face toward the sky, 
And Death's dread presence glaring in her gaze. 

"And then a cry was raised, and far and wide 
Came numbers flocking where the woman lay ; 
And lips, and tongues, and voices bore about 
The horrid news of murder. Then the child 
Was found, and told the tale of how the man 
Had come; and what he said; and how with him 
Her mother went, and leaving her behind. 
And did she know him? Yes. One Sanford Pratt. 



THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 55 

(A man of ill repute and evil deeds, 

Who once had been a laborer awhile 

In the same field where now the husband wrought, 

And often was about the store, and hence 

The woman easier heeded what he said.) 



"Forthwith were patrols sent for his arrest. 

He was not found. The women of his house 

Could only say he left the house at dawn. 

And where was he the night before? At home. 

From what hour ? Ten. And when would he return ? 

They knew not, or if knowing, would not tell. 

And all day they searched for him in vain, 

Till late was found one saying, Hours ago 

San Pratt had bargained of him for a horse. 

The bargain closed, it was arranged that he 

Should come at candle-light and take the horse. 

It wanted then some hour or more to dusk, 

And near the house were hidden, secretly, 

Two men to watch who came and went therein. 

And darkness fell ; and then a noise was heard 

As one would enter at the door. And forth 

The patrols rushed, and seized and bound him there, 

The man himself. And then the house was searched, 

And hidden in the center of his bed 

They found a roll of bills. And were they his? 

Yes! Whence had he them? And silent he. 



56 the counsellor's tale 

"And these the husband searching, one by one, 

Picked from the lot a certain tattered note, 

Torn in a peculiar way: a swallow-fork 

Upon an upper corner. This he knew 

For one he gave his wife the day before. 

Then forward came two neighbors. They had been 

About the store at later in the night, 

And there the child had, weeping, told them all, 

And that she feared to stay alone: so they 

Assisted her to close the store, and one 
Led her away to where his children were, 
To pass the night. And as they closed the door 
A man was seen to vanish in the bush: 
The fading outline of a stooping form. 
Unrecognized he was, seen not in face, 
Nor full in figure as he disappeared. 
They, thinking nothing of it, led her home. 

"Then also came the owner of the horse. 

The day before the deed he urged San Pratt 

To buy the beast. But he, with sturdy plea 

Of indigence and standing not in need 

Of such a thing as that, forbore to buy. 

But yesterday he came again and said 

His mind was changed ; he wanted now the horse ; 

But nothing of his source of means to buy. 

And then a court was held ; and there the child 



THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 57 

Was brought and questioned face to face with him. 
Again she told the tale as told before, 
And knew the prisoner as the self-same man 
Who left the store, with whom her mother went. 
So he was held to answer to the charge 
Of bloody murder, by the outraged law. 

"A year elapsed before his trial came; 

A year and more that justice poised her sword. 

By frequent hitchings in the great machine 

That constitutes the conduct of the courts, 

By absent witnesses, and long delays, 

A twelvemonth fled: and then a half was gone. 

The child had seen him never in that time. 

And now the court-hall, crowded to the full, 

Beheld him on his trial for the deed; 

And she stood there, his life within her hand. 

And they who stood upon the man's defence, 

Grave counsel, interposed because her youth 

Was such — she being but the age of nine — 

She knew not of the nature of an oth: 

And fortified them with a show of law. 

As where the quirk but that some sentence, writ 

With no allusion, can be made to stand 

In goodly showing for the thing desired? 

But to her said the judge: 'Now tell me, child, 

What would befall you if you told a lie?' 

The child, abashed one instant, raised her eyes, 

And meekly answered, 'God would punish me!' 



58 the counsellor's tale 

'A goodly answer!' quoth he. 'Let her speak.' 
And lo ! the man's last hold on life had slipped ! 
And then the prosecutors questioned her: 
'Now look around about you in the crowd, 
And point to us the man who left the store, 
Attended by your mother, on that night.' 

"There was no cause to mark him from the rest: 
No gyves nor manacles, nor sat he lone, 
For in the press the eager, listening throng, 
Had crowded close to where the culprit sat, 
And thus was foiled the easy knowing him. 

"Upright she stood amid the crowd of men, 
A slight, frail child, with yellow flowing hair, 
And meek, mild eyes, the tenderest haze of blue. 
And as those eyes passed over face by face, 
Or lingered with attentive scrutiny, 
A breathless, painful pause hung on the throng. 
And on they slipped from face to face until 
They rested on the prisoner ; and then, 
Her arm upraised and pointing to the man 
Her tiny finger, said, 'There! That is he!' 

"Oh, mighty, mighty Truth, that dost ordain 
Thy strength to lie within the mouths of babes: 
That mad'st this fragile child become a force 
To crush to atoms yonder trembling soul: 
Her tiny finger, like a bludgeon great, 



THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 59 

To beat unto the earth the bloody fiend, 
And trample down his head into the dust, 
Laid prostrate for his sin to God and man! 

"And all these things did Malcomb turn to use, 

And, growing earnest in his oratory, 

He wove them in a web of telling speech. 

Why was the man so urgent in his talk 

The child should go? Why? but that, at a blow, 

He too might hurl her to the grave, and leave 

No tongue to tell the doer of the deed! 

And who was he that vanished in the bush, 

Seen by the neighbors shutting up the store? 

Aye, who but he returned to do the deed, 

Since that his plan had compassed only half: 

Returned to sap her infant life, and seal 

In frigid Death the lips that, could they ope, 

Would hurl him into dungeons and to death! 

But God, who moved against the villain's deed, 

Had brought confusion on his studied plan, 

And snatched her safely from his vile intent; 

And kept her, as an instrument, to wreak 

An earthly punishment upon his head. 

And whence the sudden wealth, and unexplained? 

With plenty now, a beggar yesterday. 

And why the change in needing of the beast? 

But that, when finding every passage closed; 

Detection sure; the deed but badly done; 

There naught remained but he should get the horse, 

And, under cover of the night, escape. 



60 THE COUNSELLOR'S TALE 

" 'Escape ?' cried Malcomb, rising with his theme ; 

'Escape? Go where? What corner of the earth 

Affords a cover for this bloody deed? 

Where can the doer of it find a place 

To hide it from himself and from the world? 

He cannot hide it under polar snows! 

He cannot hide it in the desert sands! 

The balm of sleep shall not enwrap his sense 

But starting, quaking, from its drowsy folds 

His voice will stammer out, "I did the deed!" 

His restless eye shall catch a flitting form 

In every motion of the swaying wood! 

The shadows of the waving trees will fright 

His troubled soul, and, from the hedgerows, start 

Unnumbered captors, clutching at his skirts! 

The myriad things of nature — reed, and weed, 

And root, and blade of grass — will find a tongue, 

And lift a finger pointing unto him! 
The falling of a leaf will smite his ears 
With thunder shocks: and every blast of wind 
That howls aloud will wail out, "Murder!" ; 

"The peroration done, a murmured sound 

Of ill-suppressed applause ran through the crowd; 

Attesting of the feeling, deep and strong, 

That moved them, and could scarcely be restrained 

Even by the majesty of courts. 



THE COUNSELLORS TALE 

"Aye, thus did Malcomb for his maiden speech. 
And Fame made busy with her high report, 
And trumpeted his name as full of praise. 
Yet often have I thought: And was this well? 
Had not the law its officers; and they 
Complete and able to see justice done? 
Was not the State's attorney tall and strong 
In brain and frame, and with the largest gift 
Of eloquence to sway the listening throng 
And fill the watching eyes with sudden tears? 
And could not he have seen the right upborne? 
For never have I heard a stronger storm 
Than that he broke above that culprit head, — 
A thunder-gust of eloquence and truth, — 
As with his deep and far-resounding voice 
He knit the mesh of pointed evidence. 

"And ever to my mind, in vacant hours, 

There comes a picture of the felon face, 

With deep-drawn breath and starting beads of sweat, 

The same as when, within that echoing hall, 

He heard the chain drawn round him, link by link, 

With no link missing. For the man was held 

As guilty by the verdict of his peers ; 

And, ere long, in onward course of time, 

Was gibbeted against an April sky." 
1878. 



61 



POEMS CONTAINED IN SECOND VOLUME 

Published 1898, and Subsequent Editions 




THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

A warm light lay upon the sea, 

And filled the West with golden glory, 
As sailed a ship from Italy; 

Not far from the town of Camajore. 
High leaped the prow as out she flew: 

The waves that kissed her lightly curled; 
And far across the moving blue, 

She sailed unto a newer world. 

Ah, me! what eyes were on that ship! 

And followed her till darkness, growing, 
Drew out the moon, a silver strip, 

And set the stars with lavish sowing. 
Ah, me, what eyes, foreclosed of day, 

Yet often to the beach returned, 
To watch the ship-light's waning ray, 

That o'er the waters dimly burned! 



62 



THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 63 

I know not. Sure the eyes of three, 

Watched from the highest promontory. 
The wife of Beppo Alvini, 

And her two sons from Camajore. 
She saw the stately ship depart; 

Long time she watched her cleave the foam; 
Then clasped her children to her heart, 

And sadly sought her broken home. 

For Beppo long had held design, 

To find some land of larger yield, 
Than that which bore his stunted vine: 

Some better than his barren field. 
Nor ceased, or rested he till now 

When gathering up his little hoard, 
With sweat of anguish on his brow, 

The parting done, he stood on board. 

For strong of faith his plans were made, 

As Hope shone like a rising star, 
The center of his purpose laid, 

In fields of far America. 
God wot! they'd not have long to wait! 

In that land stored with everything, 
He'd get a fortune, swift and great, 

And make them richer than the King ! 

Oh, that was trial hard to stand, 

When to the margin of the bay — 
One child he held and by the hand 

The other led — they took their way; 



64 THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

When breaking from a long embrace, 
And clasping but to part once more, 

He kissed their tears with anguished face, 
And blessed them oft; then left the shore. 

'Twas over! Oh, to him who goes 

Not half the pain of parting falls! 
For change and scene are quick to close 

The doors that lead through Sorrow's halls. 
Far harder for the one who stays, 

Where every scene suggests the change: 
And makes the most familiar ways, 

Without the well-known presence, strange. 

And harder now for her to bear 

Her trials and the clogs that stand 
About her round of work and care, 

Bereft of Beppo's helping hand: 
But yet she lulled her griefs to rest, 

And felt her vague Faith still increase, 
That all was ordered for the best, 

And bore the fruits of final Peace. 

A woman all unlearned was she : 

Her race in humble rank had stood; 
But true in wifely fealty, 

And all the ties of motherhood. 
Unskilled to either write or read, 

And Beppo, having this in view, 
Besought the good Priest in her need, 

To speak and write between the two ; 



THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 65 

While he, of better-cultured powers, 

Would send by every vessel out, 
To break the force of anxious hours, 

And lonesome moments put to rout. 
So oft the question she referred, 

With faith such as the simple use — 
In full reliance on his word — 

"Good Father! hast thou any news?" 

Aye had he news — one evil day, 

Such as o'ertakes us late or soon, 
As friends and kin are snatched away 

In every land beneath the moon! 
News that must on us all attend; 

Aye news — sad news — the good Priest said, 
There was a letter — from some friend — 

That Beppo Alvini was dead! 

Dead! Beppo dead! Oh, then for her 

The stars had fallen from the sky; 
The sun was but a misty blur, 

The round moon but a clouded eye. 
All gone! She called her eldest child, 

And stroking soft his curly head, 
At times with bursts of weeping wild, 

Then calming more, to him she said ; 

"My Guilio, wilt thou live for me? 

My son, thy Father is no more ! 
Live, live my son! Oh, live to be 

My stay in this affliction sore!" 



66 THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

And he, too young to understand, 
With childish wonder in his face, 

First wept, then laid a chubby hand 
About her neck, in close embrace. 

Then in her widow's garments clad, 

The woman, in her desolation, 
Oft sought the Priest; who ever had 

Some precious words of consolation. 
And many a day the Mass was said, 

For Beppo's soul in Purgatory. 
God rest the souls of happy dead! 

So prayed the Priest of Camajore. 

But what of Beppo? How fared he? 

What chances did his steps attend? 
A speedy sail: fair winds and sea, 

Had brought him to his journey's end. 
I trow there was not gold to get 

In such profusion as he thought : 
And often dearth of work: but yet 

With patient mind he toiled and wrought, 

And saved each little scrap and sum, 

Till, put to profit o'er and o'er, 
His scanty dole had now become, 

A rounded out and goodly store 
With ready yield. And constant he — 

It grew the pleasure of his life — 
Sent grateful sums to Italy, 

To shield from want his patient wife, 



THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 67 

And wrote: "Good Father! wilt thou see 

She lacks for nothing? What I send 
Shall doubled, even thribbled be, 

If necessary for that end! 
And ask her, for me, that she give 

Some better schooling to our two 
Than we have had: for if I live, 

We'll one day turn out well-to-do." 

Oh, how he loved the trusted Priest 

Who had so oft his heart beguiled; 
Who in long time had never ceased 

To send him word of wife and child! 
"Thy Guilio now is fat and stout. 

And Luigi with rosy cheeks. 
The rascal, how he rolls about! — 

So like his Father when he speaks!" 

And: "Look, this is Luigi's scrawl!" 

And: "Here the spot that Guilio kissed" — 
Ah! well he knew the chords to call 

In absent eyes a rising mist! 
At last, as means were easier grown, 

The man wrote back: "Tell them, for me, 
When these three summer months have flown, 

I sail for dear old Italy!" 

A little time it was to wait — 

A fragment from the flow of years — 
A little while — yet amply great 

For deeds that yield the fruit of tears. 



68 THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

And half the days were scarce gone by 
When fell to him an advent dread; 

There came the Priest's unloved reply, 
That wife and children both were dead. 

Were dead! All dead! For in the town 

A grievous fever had prevailed; 
And from the dense air smitten down, 

Till many a wife and mother wailed. 
And they had not been spared — the three, 

Despite all human aid to heal., 
And lo, the dark reality 

Was tested by official seal. 

Oh, then did stricken Beppo go 

Unaimed and guideless in despair. 
As downy flakes do shift and blow 

About in vacant wastes of air 
Unfixed: his moods of sombre hue, 

And from companions held aloof, 
With mutterings: "Aye, it must be true! 

For here I have the certain proof!" 

Ah! well that sorrow does not last 

Like dyes that long their tints retain, 
But fades, like water-colors cast 

To catch the plashing of the rain. 
Else would the mind and heart be cleft 

By far too sharp for human peace, 
And, all their lights gone out, be left 

To brood in darkness and to cease. 



THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 69 

More firmly fixed in joy: in length 

Far more enduring: stronger grown: 
Let joy and sorrow measure strength, 

And joy lies prostrate; overthrown. 
Yet not like brazen figures cast — 

And God be thanked that it is so — 
Like snow-heaps, that, the Winter past, 

In Summer's brilliance slowly go. 

So Beppo came in time to feel 

Some gleams of sunshine on him fall: 
To find his wounded spirit heal, 

And joy at times her warmth recall. 
Yet ever present in his mind 

One pulse of strong intention rose. 
To seek their resting-place, and find 

The spot that marked their last repose. 

And in his shrunken spirit he 

This purpose held for heavy years, 
Till hoarded means should leave him free 

To see the world in wider spheres. 
At last he planned long journeys, by 

A maze of tangled travel-lines, 
To reach his native land, and spy, 

Once more her hillsides draped with vines. 

And so in early Fall, before 

The maple's russet blush had burned, 
He stood on fair Italia's shore, 

A weary wanderer home returned. 



70 THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

To Camajore straight he drew, 

But here he found that all was strange. 

At first no gazing face he knew; 
So perfect is the work of change. 

And down the Plaza thoroughfare, 

Strode he on his arrival morn, 
To find the very dwelling where 

He lived: where were his children born. 
But other homes the grounds employ; 

And turning, sad and drearily, 
A ragged, poor, bare-breasted boy, 

Drew nigh and begged a charity. 

No thing infrequent in the ways 

And customs of that sunny land; 
But something rested Beppo's gaze, 

Upon this lad with outstretched hand; 
And casual question made him make; 

"What is thy name, my son?" And he, 
Still lingering while the stranger spake; 

"My name is Guilio Alvini!" 

"Alvini, thou? Great God! And where 

Thy mother, child?" "In yonder low 
And broken cot!" "Quick, lead me there!" 

And down the crook'd and tumbling row 
Of rotten buildings Beppo sped; 

And bursting in cried: 'Look! 'Tis I! 
'Tis Beppo! I have thought thee dead 

While all these weary years went by! 



THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 71 

"Where wert thou, wife? Speak! Speak!" But she 

Too overcome to make reply, 
Could only clasp him tremblingly, 

And sink down with a feeble cry. 
But next, through rapid question made, 

And answer quick as throbbing heart, 
The monster fraud was all displayed, 

That kept them years and years apart : 

That worked its unblest method through 

Two worlds, despite dividing sea; 
Stripped lives of promised sweets, and drew 

The hard result of poverty: 
Dulled hearts with grief: dimmed eyes: and gave 

The issue wrenched from honest toil, 
As tribute to one crafty knave, 

Who basked and fattened on the spoil. 

Then outraged Beppo rushed to find 

The plotter of this cruel course. 
And seizing him, with fury blind, 

Clutched his false throat with throttling force; 
"Thou craven priest! Hast thou not taught 

Whom God hath joined let no man part? 
And now behold thy fiendish thought, 

Hath planned this scheme with crafty art." 

"Thou shalt receive thy just reward! 

Thy sin hath found thee out! Full well 
Thou'lt need to beg thy Lord's regard, 

When resting in a felon's cell!" 



72 THE PRIEST OF CAMAJORE 

All white and trembling fell the Priest, 
And prayed with offers manifold, 

Large price to pay were he released; 
But, ah! some crimes o'erbalance gold. 

Then forth into the brawling street 

Went Beppo, casting to the winds 
The depth and vileness of the cheat, 

As now and then some friend he finds. 
And men caught here and there the tale, 

Which waxed and grew until it gained 
Official ears: and straight to gaol, 

They led the culprit bound and chained. 

And Beppo's comrades round him drew 

To see once more their fellow, whom 
They looked on as a Lazarus new, 

Snatched from the keeping of the tomb; 
But found no hint of change was there 

In mien of feature, save, alway, 
That Time about his glossy hair 

Had blown a silver mist of gray. 

And Justice, in her robes of state, 

Closed on the doer of the wrong. 
Pray God she have not long to wait 

To seal him in a dungeon strong! 
There let him lie and wither! Let 

Some other tongue relate the story, 
What end the pining villain met: 

The wretched Priest of Camajore! 




A STRICKEN CITY 

Memphis, in 1878 

A silence lies upon the naked street. 

And doubling echoes wake from passing feet: 

As sounds in vacant rooms themselves repeat. 

And house and home stand in a dismal row: 

Deserted: empty: void of any show 

Of life: or passing forms that come and go. 

A foe hath broken in the commonwealth. 
Keen-fanged Disease hath passed her line by stealth, 
And fastened on the throat of public health. 

A cloud, as falling from an eminence, 

Hath burst above her head, and scattered thence 

The pregnant seeds of deadly pestilence! 

And lo, her children numbed with terror stand, 

Or, fugitives, are flying o'er the land, 

While Death, exulting, reaps with rapid hand. 

Ah, me! And can the half be ever told? 

In myriads doth the charnel earth enfold 

Their limbs, ere scarce the body hath grown cold. 



74 A STRICKEN CITY 

And want and sickness go together bound. 
And following hard a fouler ghoul is found, 
Where Theft unhindered walks his daily round. 

Is this the city that I found so bright, 
As, beautiful, it glistened in the light 
Of early Spring, in leaf and bloom bedight? 

Where drooped the fuchsia with its crimson head; 
The canna stood, with leaves of ample spread; 
The gladiolus flaming from its bed; 

The varied blossoms, tender as the dawn; 
The hoary oaks, with sweeping arms updrawn; 
The level stretches of the velvet lawn; 

Where surged the crowd on some engagement bent, 

To happy homes, or lives of well-content, 

As by the long street or pleasant park they went: 

Where rose the domes of business and of trade, 

In long succession, as they stand arrayed; 

Made beauteous with the showy wares displayed! 

Alas! that in the fury of an hour 

Th' insatiate jaws of Ravage may devour, 

The high results of lengthened years of power! 

I weep, O city, at thy grievous blow. 
Thy depth of suffering I can never know ; 
Yet can I truly enter in thy woe. 



A STRICKEN CITY 75 

Thy homes were often homes to me and mine; 
And I have felt thy children's hearts incline 
To me in welcome, as if I were thine. 

I can but pray that Ruler of the Skies, 

Who holds the governed world before His eyes, 

And shapes the fashion of our destinies: 

Will tender pity to thine anguish lend: 
The early coming of the seasons send, 
And bring the demon to a speedy end. 

But who can reckon what the end will be; 
Or pierce the distance, and conclusion see 
Unto this riot-time of Agony? 

Arise, O brothers, through this wide domain! 
Stretch out thine hands! Thy fellows lie in pain! 
Give forth thy goods as freely as the rain! 

That need ye may with some relief endow; 
Some comfort yield the anguish-stricken brow. 
The time for doing noble deeds is Now. 

August, 1878. 



"AND ONE SLEEPS IN THE SEA" 

A white-haired dame in the summer sun 

Was sitting at close of day, 
Watching the sport of children three 

On the level sward at play. 

And o'er the lines of her aged face 

A wandering smile and slow, 
Crept up, as if her memory strayed 

To the days of long ago. 

I said: "Grandmother, and who are these 

That you watch so eagerly?" 
"Oh, aye!" she answered, "you name me well! 

For I their grand-dame be !" 

"Grandmother ? Aye, you name me well ! 

So easily age is known. 
But in the moment before you spoke 

I fancied they were my own." 

"I thought they were my own dear sons, 

In tiny frock and sack, 
As many a day I've seen them play, 

In the times that never come back." 



76 



AND ONE SLEEPS IN THE SEA 77 

"When Willie, and Harry, and darling John, 

Were children just as wild, 
And just as full of strong caprice, 

As the waywardest-minded child. 

"For somehow they are with me yet 

Just as they frolicked then. 
Somehow I cannot think of them 

As their being bearded men. 

"Though well I know that all of them 
Were grown men, tall and strong: 

But just now they came back to me 
In childish prattle and song. 

"But they are gone, and only these 

Are all that's left to me. 
For one lies here, and one far off, 

And one sleeps in the sea. 

"Willie, my eldest, married a wife, 

A dear, sweet woman, and true; 
And six bright years of their mingled lives, 

Like my own life rapidly flew. 

"And then she drooped, and left my boy 
With his head bowed down and low. 

In three months more he followed her — 
But he was not the first to go. 



78 AND ONE SLEEPS IN THE SEA 

"My Harry, he lived in a Southern town, 
When a plague swept through the air. 

He would not fly and his safety find; 
But felt it his duty there. 

"He stayed to nurse the sick and faint, 
To do the Samaritan's part. 

And long and long in the fever's wrath, 
He stood with a lion's heart. 

"Till weary and worn in an endless watch, 

By many a couch of pain, 
The demon found him an easy prey; 

And he lay where the dead were lain. 

"I cannot weep for Harry so much; 

He died as the brave men die. 
And surely they who perish this way, 

Will live beyond the sky. 

"Likewise my heart is numbed and dull 
From an oft-recurring pain. 

For a grief can lose its sharpest pang, 
When it comes and comes again. 

"It smote me sorest when darling John, 
The best beloved of the three, 

Sailed away to the older world, 
And never came back to me. 



AND ONE SLEEPS IN THE SEA 79 

"For the cable flashed the terrible tale, 
That the Indria, wrecked and tossed, 

Went down in the midst of a stormy sea, 
And all on board were lost. 

"And he was there, my darling John, 

The best beloved of the three, 
And it smote me sorest, for this was the first, 

When he slept in the sea. 

"I remember now, on the day that he sailed 

My mind had a vague unrest, 
That never again as a living man, 

Should I take him to my breast. 

"Ah, woe is me! He sailed away, 

And I never beheld him more. 
But I shall see and know him, when 

I reach that far-off shore. 

"He may not hold the self-same form, 

That he held when a part of earth. 
This outward hulk will find a change, 

In taking immortal birth. 

"This certain shape we know us by, 

This figure that we bear, 
May lapse, and only find a frame 

As things of thinnest air. 



80 AND ONE SLEEPS IN THE SEA 

"For shall the self-same body rise, 
The self-same parts embrace, 

Though sundered far by wind and wave, 
Though darkened every trace? 

"Who knows? Not I. What matters it? 

Why vex my reason dim? 
For God will give to us a form, 

Such as it pleaseth Him. 

"And thought or body; mind or soul; 

Whatever it happens to be, 
I then shall know my darling boy, 

Who now sleeps in the sea." 




» 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 

A FIRESIDE IDYLL. 



««» 



The winter frost is on the ground; 

The nipping air is clear and keen: 
The pale moon, rising cold and round, 

Lights clustered fires of diamond sheen. 
The cold without but doubly shows 

The cheer within grow high and bright, 
Where, on the hearth, the oak fire glows, 

And floods the room with warmth and light. 



II. 



Across the floor, upon the wall, 

Beyond the heat the embers throw, 
Distorted shadows upward crawl, 

And profiles there fantastic grow. 
No lamp is needed in the flare, 

That shines from out the steady blaze, 
And in the updrawn cozy chair, 

A young man sits with steadfast gaze. 



si 



82 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 

III. 

And at his side his daughter stands, 

To him the queen of blue-eyed girls, 
And in the fire-light spreads her hands, 

Then brushes back her yellow curls. 
His arm around her waist is clasped, 

This blooming girl of summers three, 
While with the other firmly grasped, 

A babe is dandled on his knee. 

IV. 

The morrow is the birth of Christ, 

The day that in the Builder's plan, 
There came the Lamb, which, sacrificed, 

Was purchase price for fallen man. 
When deeper love of home upsprings, 

And closer bond around it draws: 
Sweet time that, unto children, brings, 

The pleasant myth of Santa Claus. 

V. 

Ah well, dear wife, this Christmas tide 

It finds me with an empty purse. 
I am not sad, my time I bide, 

And hope it will not turn to worse. 
But for some things I'm ill at ease — 

I think you see my meaning's drift 
Because you smile — the chief of these, 

I have for you no Christmas gift. 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 83 

VI. 

Sure I no instance should forget, 

To make some form of outward sign, 
To show that I am in your debt, 

While you, my love, are yet in mine. 
But we'll not make our loves a book, 

To strike a balance of accounts; 
But pay and pay, and never look 

To adding up the vast amounts. 

VII. 

For what can I display to mate, 

The patience and the help you lent, 
When hand in hand in Life's estate, 

We from our small beginning went? 
And though I had the Ophir gold, 

Such as I know shall never be, 
It could not match, its sums all told, 

That Christmas gift you gave to me. 

VIII. 

Dear girl ! I see two watery nets 

Weave in my eyelids as I speak. 
A mistiness that love begets 

I own, although it may be weak. 
Love for her mischief, frolic-bred, 

Her childish sayings, quaint and wise, 
As though there was, shut in her head, 

Some old soul looking through her eyes. 



84 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 

IX. 

I find there is no sweeter thing, 

Than when the day has gone to rest, 
Lulled by such songs as I can sing, 

She sinks to slumber on my breast. 
Or when the morn has but begun, 

To feel her arms about me reach, 
And find such worlds of mirth and fun, 

In blunders of her infant speech. 



x. 



And as the years rolled on apace, 

This fellow came, with eyes like mine, 
And dimples in his merry face. 

He almost was a valentine. 
The jolly scamp! to see the way, 

He for some passing notice begs; 
And see how brimming full of play, 

He kicks his chubby little legs! 



XL 



Dear tokens of our weddinghood! 

We did not for such good allow 
As ours has been. We hoped that good 

Would come, but did not presage how. 
We were so ill-equipped indeed, 

That slow, I think, had been our pace 
But for the good friend in our need, 

Who helped me with a paying place. 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 85 

XII. 

The question something odd provokes: 

If you recall the eve we walked 
Down in the grove of rustling oaks, 

And of the far-seen Future talked : 
When from the brook with grassy bank, 

(A wandering fancy makes me ask) 
I stooped upon my hands and drank? 

You thought the act was "picturesque." 

XIII. 

We in the future looked. The breeze 

Made summer sighings overhead, 
While underneath, among the trees, 

Was wealth of summer beauty spread. 
We wished our mingled paths might stray, 

In such rich glories of the woods. 
'Twas long before that autumn day 

You fuchsias wore for orange buds. 

XIV. 

And we began the battle then, 

And bravely have we fought along. 
It has not always springlike been ; 

For sun and shade to life belong. 
But ours has been a pleasant life, 

And on this night of all the year, 
I fain recall your goodness, wife, 

And tell the charms that greet me here. 



86 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 

XV. 

I could not bear to have you rise, 

Upon to-morrow's merry morn, 
And in that time of sweet surprise, 

To find no present for your own; 
So I must tell you in advance, 

This one regret the time alloys. 
'Tis only left our hearts to dance, 

To see the children with their toys. 

XVI. 

We'll deck the house with box and yew, 

With mistletoe, and leaves of green; 
The cedar with its dots of blue, 

And holly-berries strewn between: 
We'll enter full the Christmas cheer, 

And keep awatch for future thrift; 
And, trust that I, another year, 

May make you, love, some Christmas gift. 






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A RETROSPECT 

I saw a tall oak, swaying in a storm : 

Long-limbed and strong, whereunder I had played 

With acorn-cups, and gathered russet leaves. 

But deep-imbedded in his hold, the tree 

Put forth his fullest strength, and, firmly fixed, 

Rocked and upheld until the storm had passed, 

And died into a murmur in the leaves. 

And, stronger for his wrestling, he stood 

A victor in the battle with the winds. 

I said: If men were only like the oak! 

If firmly fixed in faith they could outdo 

The utmost blowing of besetting storms; 

Or, iron-grained, present opposing fronts 

To gusts of strong temptation; evil will; 

And not like limber weeds bow down to earth, 

Or prostrate tumble like the tasseled corn. 

But Oh! so little are they like the oak! 
Not ready always when the storms arise: 
But in some moment of unwariness 
The evil taketh them without a guard, 
And works a mischief ere its force be stayed. 



87 



88 A RETROSPECT 

What though the sentry mount incessant guard, 
And yet doth sleep an instant in his round? 
That one thin instant cancels all before, 
If, o'er the wall, the foeman sword in hand 
Doth leap, and, smiting but a single stroke, 
Wreak there a damage not to be removed. 

And they who oftenest stand in danger's face, 
Strong ones who meet the world of every day, 
Like pilots coastwise faring, learn the tact 
With which the Tempter doth beset their tread, 
In countless fashions and with varied forms; 
And see the need to keep a sleepless ward 
If they abide, lest in a drowsy hour 
They fall into the blackness of the pit. 

And likewise they who hide them from the world, 

Unused to meet the Adversary's arts, 

And watch themselves with strictest study, learn 

That go we in a walk of utmost care, 

And pry about us with incessant eyes, 

Yet still the thread that windeth from our lives, 

Is caught and tangled like the weaver's sleave. 

Thus have I learned it; yet as not of these: 

Not one of those who make the foremost plunge 

In the high tide of action and of men; 

Nor yet of those who draw them from their kind. 

But one content, within a middle sphere, 

To labor and to calmly bide my time. 



A RETROSPECT 89 

For I have lived a quiet life among 
The fleeting events of the busy world. 
A life of labor and alternate ease. 
And overliving the disparagement 
That clings about the boy who grows to man, 
And lives his life where he was born, have crept, 
Through earnest working unto mild reward. 
And, buffeting the waves of circumstance, 
Have felt the good and felt the ills of life: 
Have stood deep-plunged in duties of the hour, 
As mowers stand waist-deep amid the grain, 
And one by one have daily lain them all. 

A quiet life; yet not devoid of act, 

Of incident and scene. For who that lives 

But in the daily sameness of his walk, 

Finds dramas acted in the commonplace; 

Adventure born from trifling things; and deeds 

Of self-denial, truth, and sacrifice, 

Done with each hour that marks his everyday? 

The heroes known and loved of men^ who stand 

Full in the blazing light of myriad eyes, 

Are many. Those of humbler act and deed, 

Hid in the silence of obscurity, 

But who are, nathless, proved and true, are more. 

And thus, amid the dust of flying Time, 

My life has moved so even and so still, 

That when I scarce have seemed to draw the plan, 

Behold! I find my feet are brushing by 

The middle milestone standing by the way. 



90 A RETROSPECT 

The middle one? Who knows; or who can tell 
To scan the distant prospect stretched away, 
Which one is middle, and which one is end? 
Like pilgrims to an unknown shrine, we grope 
Our way in darkness, knowing not the land : 
Blind guides to others, each one only knows, 
That in some sudden turning of the road, 
There glooms a gateway destined unto him. 

Behold! we narrow in our walk and ways: 

And Time restricts the boundaries of our sphere 

More and more: till, lastly, downward drawn 

By one great Magnet-force that calls us on, 

We lapse into the stillness of the Night. 

Like things that float in eddies. Round and round 

They whirl in lessening circles, till the time 

When drawn by suction to a single point 

They plunged engulphed beneath the whirling foam. 

Companions die and leave us: friends are gone: 
Old ties are broken : newer circles made : 
And all things quicken in the touch of change. 

Of all men can I ill-afford to lose 

The kindly presence of a single one. 

For they who love the flimsy things of rhyme 

Are few, and are not easy to be spared. 

As one that only hath a little hoard, 

Must eke the measure of his scanty means, 

To every farthing its allotted work, 

With not a one misplaced. Where little is, 



A RETROSPECT 91 

If but a part be lessened, yet the loss 
Seems greater from the little that remains. 
So more than loss to me I count the one* 

Whom late we laid within that whispering grove, 

Rest-laden with the sighing of the pines. 

For he had depths to hold the sacred fire, 

To feel the stirring of the thing within: 

At times had voice to carry forth the song. 

For this I loved to hear from him the sound, 

Whereto an echo in my bosom rung: 

As harps and stringed instruments give out 

A tone, when in their presence notes are made, 

In the same pitch whereunto they are strung. 

I walked with him one early Autumn day, 

When sundown fell upon a lonely farm, 

And all the wood was steeped in ruddy glow, 

As the round sun, from battlements of clouds, 

Shot level lances from his yellow shield. 

Unbroken silence rested on the wold, 

Save that the cricket shirped in brittle grass, 

And that the hollow forest sounded with 

The mournful calling of the whippoorwill. 

And yonder, by the plashy meadow, came 

The careful herder, bringing home the kine, 

That, plunging ankle-over through the fern, 

Stood, mirror-pictured, in the cooling wave. 



•George A. Gallagher. Died September 25, 1878. 



92 A RETROSPECT 

And here we found the margin of the marsh, 
Where rising, frightened, from the reedy sedge, 
A heron clove the air with whistling wings. 
We spake awhile, and flowing from that time, 
My soul clung to him close as ivy-vines 
Are webbed about a shaft of hoary stone. 
So is affection sudden in result, 
And riseth out of unimportant things. 

He loved the peaceful sweetness of the scene : 
He loved the flooding sunlight and the trees: 
He loved the solemn hush when evening draws, 
Upon the land her hazy vail of gray: 
He loved to linger then, and hear, or feel, 
Within the soul, a whispered voice of God. 
No need, O bird, for safety in thy flight! 
The meekest, mildest maid; the gentlest one 
Of all God's creatures, would not harm thee less, 
Than we two men who walked beside the marge, 
In close communion with the dying day. 

And he is gone! The Shadow watching men 
Of sudden claimed its forfeit, and there rose 
A cry of anguish mounting to the stars, 
Among the many who had found him fair. 

Sleep on, O friend, until the waking-day! 
And ever we who loved thy presence here, 
Will keep for thee, through changes manifold, 
A tender memory growing with the years. 



Quoted by Gen. C. H. My Agramonte, City of Mexico, in a speech 
February 22nd, 1899, and repeated in many Memorial Circulars since. 




THE MASQUERADE 5 



*fr 



Here a farmstead opens wide, 
Cheery, cheery, in its greeting; 

And within the mansion's walls, 

The world in miniature is meeting. 

Host and household members — like 
Scions of the Old Dominion — 

Vie in welcome to each guest, 
Worthy of a true Virginian. 

Not a want goes unsupplied; 

Not a lapse from utmost duty, 
By sire, or matron, groom or bride 

In the freshness of her beauty. 

Music wakes from gifted hands; 

Softly, softly, speaks of pleasure. 
Money Musk, and gems of Strauss, 

Cagliostro's melting measure. 



*At Holkham, the residence of Dr. John R. Woods, 
near Ivy Depot, Albemarle Co., Virginia, Dec, 1878. 



94 THE MASQUERADE 

Who can hear harmonious tones 
Gently, gently rising, swelling; 

And not in his bosom find 
Sympathy of spirit dwelling? 

So I sit and hear the sounds 

On the waked attention stealing; 

Till the cadence of the strain 

Leaves me with a raptured feeling. 

Oh, if the picture's brightness would 
Linger, linger, without fading! 

As the merry-hearted crowd, 
Mingle in the masquerading. 

Here is England's stately Bess; 

Royal, royal in demeanor. 
Nun; and Knight; and Scottish lass; 

And beside them Ruth the gleaner. 

Folly; with her merry bells — 

Jingle, jingle, hear them ringing! 

Turk; and peasant; Scot; and clown; 

Through the moving throng are swinging. 

Quakeress; and bland Ah Sin; 

Convict broken from his keeper; 
Oxford Student; Dandy Jim; 

Irving's mythic mountain-sleeper; 



THE MASQUERADE 95 

Charity; and Through the Rye; 

Grandam, spectacled and bending; 
Page; and Switzer; village-maid; 

Lady at the court attending; 

Flower-girl; and domino — 

All the Nation's varied phases, 
Gladden in the gay quadrille, 

Or circle in the waltz' mazes. 

And Oh that love of a Spanish girl, 
Dancing, dancing smooth and airy: 

Full and round of face and form, 
Light in action as a fairy. 

Oh the tinsel and the gloss 

For this mimic world's attraction, 

Are but milder features drawn 
From a wider field of action. 

Life is but a masquerade. 

Faces coming, coming, going; 
Multitudes are in disguise; 

Myriads with a double showing. 

Countless numbers clothe in fraud, 
Winning, winning, by pretenses; 

Truth is put concealed away, 
Past the grasping of the senses. 



96 THE MASQUERADE 

Every act of brain and frame 

Shaped to keep it from appearing, 

How the different heart within 

Mates not with the outward bearing. 

Every art of brain and frame 
Never, never done with weaving 

Screens to hide the real light; 

Cloaks the seeker's gaze deceiving. 

So the world goes rolling on ; 

Busy, busy, in the moving; 
And we see the shells of men; 

Not the under surface proving. 

But if life were like this scene, 
Dazzling, dazzling to the vision, 

Then we might its manner call, 
Something better than Elysian. 







River, river, flowing slowly 

To the deep and heaving sea ; 

Here I linger by thy margin, 
Sad and loth to go from thee. 
— A Farewell 



A FAREWELL 

River, river, flowing slowly 
To the deep and heaving sea, 

Here I linger by thy margin, 
Sad and loth to go from thee! 

Wander on thy shining pathway, 

River, river, flowing slow! 
On where sheers the mountain buttress; 

On by marsh-lands lying low! 

Evermore thy current runneth, 

River, river, flowing on: 
Only we who walk beside thee 

Flit, and fade, and soon are gone. 

Comrades had I blithe and merry, 
On thy banks, O river clear! 

Friends to give me welcome ready; 
Youth and beauty gathered here. 

Mirth and merriment were banded; 

Joy and laughter ruled the time, 
As the weird assembly mingled 

In the masking and the mime. 



97 



98 A FAREWELL 

Lo, a day, and these have vanished. 

As the blown leaf disappears 
In thy ripples, go we drifting 

Down the current of the years. 

Here awhile we move together, 
Like, O river, to thy tide: 

Yonder, where a boulder jutteth, 
Lo, the broken waves divide. 

Scatter we, belike beside thee 
Never more to join again. 

So behind the joy of meeting, 

Parting trails a quickened pain. 

River, river, flowing slowly 
To the deep and heaving sea; 

May the memory of thy pleasure, 
Win us wanderers back to thee! 



v^ 



w^ 




AGIMUS 

A voice of gratitude to the North for benevolence 
during the plague of 1878. 

"God send the rime! A weary land is waiting, 

With aching hearts the coming of the time, 
When smiting downward through the vaulted open, 

The winter-sprite shall rain the hoary rime. 
For here the good, the brave, the fair and tender, 

Are clipped and wilted by the Simoon's breath, 
As through the limits of a land plague-ridden, 

There stalks the awful Carnival of Death. 

"God send the rime! Oh days of ripe October, 

Sweet art thou with thy veil of hazy light! 
Thy leaves and fruits are dipped and dyed in beauty; 

Thy red and gold is gladsome to the sight. 
But linger not! Let winds from Northland blowing, 

Move and dispel thy mellow wealth arrayed ; 
And wake the fullness of the frost-king's vigor, 

So long delayed — Ah me! — So long delayed." 

So sighed a people in the early Autumn, 

When heavy hearts were dull and cold with grief; 

As through the long night they sat with weary watching, 
To catch the coming signal of relief. 



99 



100 AGIMUS 

So slow it came ! The heaven's tardy season, 
Seemed far and fainter as it rolled away: 

As they who in the stretch of expectation, 
Live through long ages in a waiting day. 

But while the saving season lagged and halted, 

There rose relief bestowed in other form; 
For house and home within the Northern region, 

Gave forth their goods in answer quick and warm. 
Yea, man with man, and each with other, vieing, 

Poured out their gifts as freely as the rain; 
From great and small; from rank and low condition; 

To soothe the sick or ease the bed of pain. 

Not idly was the cry of grief repeated, 

In that far land of coast and sighing pine; 
For hearts that stirred at pangs of distant anguish, 

Leapt to the work of Charity divine. 
Not vainly was the call for succor rendered. 

In one vast swell from city and from town, 
They gave in lavish measure their possessions; 

And blessed the giving that they showered down. 

Sweet sister, we, with misty tears upstarting, 

Kiss the kind hand thou held'st us in our need! 
Thy gifts we measure not upon their value; 

But for the priceless sweetness of the deed. 
And long, to children's children, in rehearsing 

The grief that dimmed our overburdened eyes; 
Shall we recount alike thy saintly action, 

That knit us to thee with enduring ties. 



AGIMUS 101 

Not statesmen in the halls of legislation ; 

Not gems of genius on the Poet's page; 
Could e'er have bound us unto thee so firmly, 

As this thy favor in the fever's rage. 
And who can say but that this closer drawing, 

Was meant by Him with all foresight endowed, 
To be one earning from a dire disaster — 

A silver lining to an ebon cloud. 






THE POET'S SONG 

He sang a song at early morning time, 
When merry birds sang with him in the trees, 
And all the meadow-land was white with dew. 
He sang because his heart was full of song. 
And they perchance who passing heard the lay 
Said: "Hear the singer! If he persevere, 
Some day his idle singing will we hear." 

He sang again: at noontide's sultry time, 
When resting in a deep and quiet shade. 
This time his singing was with greater care; 
He pitched his tone and voice in finer strain. 
But they who heard it heard with fevered blood, 
With pulse too hot and quick to linger near, 
And said: "O singer, bye and bye we'll hear!" 

He sang again, when evening shadows came. 

But now his song had echoes of despair — 

Of broken hope from patient waiting born — 

Because that, since he could not choose but sing, 

They, hearing, had put off so long to hear. 

And harvesters of corn, and wine, and oil, 

Said: "Fool! why sing? Gain these, as we, from toil!" 



102 



THE POET'S SONG 103 

And then he sang no more. And o'er his breast 

The robin lightly hopping in the Spring, 

Heard from the grasses whispering in the wind; 

"The Poet's heart is like that windy harp, 

That murmurs music to each breeze that blows." 

And those above him as they passed along, 

Said: "Truth, there was some sweetness in his song!" 

Oh, ever far away and not at hand! 

But still he sings; for song is joy and breath. 

And thus the silver sands run quickly on, 

Till from the nerveless hand slips down the harp, 

And with its pulses dies away the song. 

And only by the sudden silence sprung, 

Do men perceive that lately one hath sung. 

But when the singer's lips are mute and dumb, 

And when the nimble brain that framed the lay 

Is emptied of its God-born tenantry, 

Around the mouldering dust approach the throng, 

And speaking through the shadow drawing down, 

Say of the meek and long-unheeded one: 

"How sweet he sang! Alas, that the song is done!" 





CLYDHAM GRANGE 

I walk about a wasted mead, 

A wasted mead by a wrinkled sea, 
Where miles of broken coast recede, 

And the cold sea laps incessantly: 
Whole miles of coast where long ago, 

I, boylike, breaking away from home, 
Have tossed its beach sands to and fro, 

And caught the shivering floats of foam: 
As lifted waves came sliding down, 

And broke above my naked feet, 
Or cooled my features, burned and brown, 

Tanned dark in the sway of Summer's heat. 

But not as in that earlier day 

I walk the mead by Clydham Grange: 
For me, its hold has slipped away, 

Beneath the magic touch of change, 
For strangers crowd the mansion door, 

And throng its halls, once wide and free, 
And all the ancient ties it bore, 

Have grown apart from mine and me. 

It shared the fate that overtakes 
The olden homesteads of all lands: 

The line of long succession breaks, 
And casts the manse to other hands. 



104 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 105 

Long time its acres were, in sooth, 

The sphere of service in my fate: 
The record of my vacant youth, 

Was made within its portal gate. 
For unto me the earliest lights 

That in the cells of Memory rise, 
Are linked with its familiar sights, 

Where first I met a mother's eyes. 
And there in childhood's joyous round 

The place and I together grew ; 
As friend with friend is closely bound. 

No other haunt I wished or knew. 
Still there in deeper purpose grown, 

That to expanding life adheres, 
I fixed my wish on one alone, 

A playmate of my early ye^rs. 

Too like we were in make and mind, 

For Peace in Love to tarry long: 
The love between us was the kind 

That dies from being overstrong. 

The strange wild kind whose wayward sway, 

Commands all passion to its beck, 
And rushing on its headlong way, 

Is shattered at the slightest check. 

For often falls it to the race, 

A product wrought from hidden laws, 
The growth that years have brought to pass, 

May perish from a puny cause. 



106 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

In life, in love, in deeds of men, 

A speck may serve to break the force 

That lies beneath a settled plan, 

And thwart the project's onward course. 



'Twas idle cause for severance — 

A trifling bar to prove so strong — 
A petty slight at an evening dance, 

And each one held the other wrong: 
An idle quarrel blown to light, 

An angry flash — a word or two — 
So Amy Wayne we part this night, 

I go my way, the like do you. 



At this time Clydham Grange had grown 

A place of lesser peace to me. 
A second father's sway was thrown 

About my will continually. 
At this time, too, the golden West 

Spread out, a rose-lit land of gain. 
Like skies when, with a flaming crest, 

The sun dips down below the plain. 
And thither all my hope was drawn, 

To give my manhood greater play: 
To find me there an opening dawn, 

And grow into a brighter day. 
And were it not well to draw apart 

A little while from Amy Wayne, 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 107 

To find a joy in larger part, 

From being by her side again? 
Should I not win to bring about 

The deeper sweet to Affection's cup, 
Which they who once have fallings out, 

Receive again in making up? 
I heard but Reason coldly speak, 

I clasped my purpose close in hand, 
And turned from Clydham Grange, to seek 

My fortune in a stranger's land. 

A long and weary pathway waits 

Him who essays the course's length. 
Too oft he reaches golden gates, 

With the last sands of waning strength: 
Too oft he finds the alluring prize, 

Is closed within a palsied clutch, 
And, in his hour of triumph, dies, 

The phantom fleeing at a touch. 
But better is it that the goal 

Be reached too late, or entered not, 
Than that the vacant brain or soul, 

From lack of use should rust and clot. 
O work! work! work! art thou a curse? 

Then art thou one the soul doth crave; 
That lifts us from a bondage worse, 

Than ever galled a galley slave! 

Yet are there myriad men who cleave 
To vagrant nothings of the mind, 



108 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

Who perish, like the beasts, and leave 

No certain monument behind: 
Oh, happy he, not idle here, 

Who makes his fund of days and hours, 
As building-stones from which to rear 

A temple high in spire and towers: 
That men, beholding far, may view 

And praise the beauty of the fane: 
The will that never failure knew: 

The life that was not lived in vain. 

But what to me was sturdy toil, 

And what the burden of the strife, 
To one who craved the loud turmoil 

Engendered in the rush of life? 
I plunged amid the jar and smoke, 

Where over-crowded markets teem, 
And wrought with never-ceasing stroke, 

Like those long arms that work by steam. 

At first there wrestled with my pride, 

A thousand longings, deep and keen, 
To own the fault I once denied, 

And weld the bond that first had been. 
And wishing long and earnestly, 

The idle quarrel past and gone, 
Unwilling yet that I should be 

The first to speak, I lingered on : 
I lingered, longing to confess, 

And praying that the cloud be cleared; 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 109 



Till bye and bye I struggled less, 

And then the longings disappeared. 
For in that time, from Amy Wayne 

Came never message, word, or line. 
Perhaps she could her will restrain 

And curb her moods, as I did mine. 
I know not ; but, as time went on, 

Absorbed in other things I grew; 
Till, in the duties to be done, 

Her name and face were lost to view: 
Engulphed amid the whirling chase, 

That marks the toil of head and hand; 
As on the beach the waves erase, 

The tracings made upon the sand. 

Till something, speaking from within, 

Some voice of hidden power repressed, 
Made hints of greater name to win, 

And roused a tumult in my breast. 
Some impulse, in my being, taught 

My mind to wake and act; and stirred 
Desire to seize the flying thought, 

And frame it with the fitting word. 

Which moved me to forsake the tame 
And fancy-barren paths of trade, 

To labor for a poet's fame, 

And seek the praise upon them laid. 

What harm if poor disciples gaze, 
With eyes of covetous regard, 



110 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

At those far heights where Honor stays, 
Her palms enfolding high reward? 

Who doth the summit overtake, 

His brows by civic wreaths enfurled, 

Finds thence a strength of speech to make 
An echo through the open world. 

Is this not ending fit to claim 

The utmost stretch of power all; 
The risk of failure and the shame, 

For those who seek to climb, but fall? 
And though the course be far from plain, 

The goal be high and seldom found, 
None doth the towering crest attain, 

Who climbs not from the lower ground. 

So reasoning, twelve years I plied 
A given task with might and main: 

Forgetting all the world beside; 
Forgetting love and Amy Wayne. 

In those twelve years, when at my themes 

I gave my halting fancy range, 
I heard, like waking out of dreams, 

What changes fell on Clydham Grange. 
And once my steady purpose slacked, 

I thought no more my task to prove, 
When death, that universal fact, 

Had robbed me of a Mother's love. 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 111 

But time and work have nimble hands, 

To blunt the edge of keen regret; 
A mist around our vision stands; 

We slip our sorrows and forget. 
With less concern again I knew, 

My second father's shiftless plans: 
And how, improvident, he threw 

The bonds of debt upon our lands. 
How, in the flying of a while, 

A crowd of human birds of prey, 
Swooped down, with boundless craft and guile, 

And Clydham Grange was swept away. 

But memories of my squandered right, 

Bore not for me a bitter fruit. 
I thrust the subject out of sight, 

And followed closer my pursuit. 
I worked the mine; I wove the thread; 

At last the work completed stood. 
I watched with tremblings and with dread, 

If men would see and call it good: 
When, lo! for all my care, I found 

Who in this way his time employs, 
Is making but a single sound, 

Amidst a world of general noise: 
Makes but a ripple in the bay, 

That stirs a little near the shore; 
But, widening outward, fades away, 

To perish and be felt no more. 



112 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

To pity is it close akin, 

That men who lead such lives as these, 
Should be so far forsaken in 

Their well-meant aims to teach and please; 
Who moving from an inner zeal. 

That fills the Spirit's regal throne, 
To shape for all the sense they feel, 

And follow Art, for Art alone; 
Are left alone to wage for each. 

The warfare of the false and true; 
They speak because the gift of speech 

Forbids that silence should ensue. 

A race of men who live apart. 

In self-communion wrapped and caught. 
With denser soul, and larger heart. 

To feel and speak the common thought. 
A race of men with brain afire, 

Pursuing Fame, devoid of ruth. 
Who covet with intense desire. 

Some modern garb for ancient truth : 
At times to find some hidden grace, 

Unfound by thinkers gone before. 
To wrest it from its hiding place. 

And hold aloft the gleaming ore ; 
But find its beauties, bold and free. 

Disdained of eye and spurned of hand. 
By those who seeing will not see. 

And hearing will not understand : 
Who center on some noble phrase. 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 113 



A hope to gain the people's eye, 
And find instead of grateful praise, 
Men silent pass the effort by. 

I question with myself in thought, 

If they who have their greatness won, 
Suspected as they toiled and wrought, 

What things their fame would rest upon. 
With eye prophetic saw where swelled 

The flood of life that years contain, 
For some creation which they held 

A finer coinage of the brain: 
Or did they find some speech or song, 

Born of a random flash of mind, 
Caught here and there, and borne along 

Each idle turning of the wind: 
Some flying thing, on which they laid 

The faintest stress that mind can give: 
Some burst, that seemed so lightly made, 

It scarcely half deserved to live: 
Which falling on a favored ground, 

And scattering, like the violet seed, 
Struck root and rose to shower around, 

Sweet incense for a people's need. 

The working of ungoverned chance, 
Surrounds the children of the pen ; 

And wins for them a swift advance, 
A place amid the thoughts of men : 

Or leaves them lying cold and still, 
To slumber hidden and unknown; 



114 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

At times not waked to life until 

The parent breath has lapsed and flown. 
For these are days of worth and use, 

When he who wields material things, 
Is more than he who would unloose, 

The wanderings of his fancy's wings. 
Oh! better had I but remained, 

The farmer-lad of Clydham Grange: 
The doings of my days contained 

Within its narrow bounded range. 
To dig, to hew, to reap, to sow, 

Achieving joys of lowly kind, 
To see the seasons move and go, 

But leaving me content of mind: 
To find a wife, to rear my race, 

With children babbling on my knee; 

Ah, not for me, — no, not for me! 
To leave some print on Nature's face; 

For yonder where the woolvine rears 

A tangled head athwart the ground, 
I knelt to-day with misty tears, 

And learned who filled the crumbling mound. 
I read upon the staring stone, 

Conclusion to my wasted days, 
As in that mute memorial shown, 

One sad, set record met my gaze. 
"Here waiting a blest eternity, 

Lies Amy Wayne." — And there below: 



CLYDHAM GRANGE 115 

And keenly sad it smote on me — 

"In death our souls the truth shall know." 
Alas, thou wert too true for earth! 

Oh Amy Wayne from yon high spheres, 
Where changed through thy celestial birth, 

Thy soul surveys these futile tears, 
Oh pity me in my distress, 

If these deep words be meant for me; 
My face upon the grass I press, 

And weep that ever I turned from thee! 



For Love, long hid in barren lands, 

Resumes again his ancient place, 
To fondle with his helpless hands, 

The shaping of the faded face : 
To summon back the soft caress; 

To wind again the tress of hair; 
To hear the rustle of her dress; 

And wake her image everywhere. 
Her fair sweet face upon my sight, 

From thousand little things doth rise. 
Her voice comes to me in the night, 

And on me glance her speaking eyes. 
And ever as my path appears, 

Like to a cloud in Heaven set 
There hangs above the somber years 

A fadeless image of Regret. 



116 CLYDHAM GRANGE 

Oh, what to me were glory worth? 

And what the laurels or the bays? 
I move amidst a living dearth, 

And care no more for tongues of praise. 
So now I walk about the mead, 

The wasted mead, by a wrinkled sea, 
Where miles of broken coast recede, 

And the cold sea laps incessantly. 
And so methinks the swelling tides 

Of life, that swarm with daily quests, 
Flow on; as many a vessel rides, 

To joy and fortune on their breasts: 
While in the waves of cark and care, 

Full many a wretch is cast away, 
And finds, as I, his floating hair, 

Is frosted with the flying spray. 
Oh, what remains for me to do, 

But curse me for my weary lot; 
The pride that chilled me through and through; 

The love I slighted and forgot! 
To curse me that I sought and chose, 

The course that brought a broken life. 
Whatever future years may close, 

There stands for me no thought of wife. 



4V 



THE ROWEN 



In New England the second crop of grass grown in the 
same season is called the rowen. 



The woods are brown, and hill and town 

Sleep in the hazy weather; 
The Autumn sheaves, with nuts and leaves, 

Are ripe and red together. 
And brushing through the early dew, 

Where stood the buckwheat bowing, 
The cattle low; or, dull and slow, 

Go grazing in the rowen. 

Thou Mother-land with lavish hand 

Regard'st thy children's needing: 
Dost ever fill their utmost will, 

Nor turn away unheeding. 
Thou givest o'er thy varied store, 

Their homes with joy endowing: 
And doubling then thy gifts to men, 

Thou yieldest them the rowen. 



117 



118 



THE ROWEN 



O life, dost thou the like allow? 

I hear their doleful greeting. 
But once to all the time doth fall. 

There cometh no repeating. 
No double course of strength and force: 

No second growth allowing: 
When youth is done, there comes to none 

The season of the rowen. 






MARGARET MAIN 

There lived in Berwick, in an earlier day, 

These two young lives in closest bondage bound. 

Margaret Main, a dark, full-passioned girl, 
With lustrous, flashing eyes, and raven locks; 

And Barbara Gress, a gentler natured child, 

With milder bearing, and a sunny face, 

Itself an ensign of the living truth; 

And both loved Philip Pride, an orphan boy. 

Now Margaret, with the quick, impulsive life 

Of warmer climate speeding in her veins, 

Laid bare her heart to Barbara, unasked, 

Of all her love of Philip. And when Barbara heard, 

She set the seal of silence on her tongue, 

And hid her own emotion; and gave not 

In least betrayal, or by word, or look, 

The means whereby that either one might know. 

And in her inner heart she bade herself 

Not to love Philip, for that Margaret did; 

Took solemn counsel of her secret thought, 

And laid far-reaching plans of how she would 

Dismiss his image and efface his name. 

But when was Love the subject of command? 

Or when was stern resolve so closely knit 

Or woven, but that through its meshes came 

That native heat that steals along the soul ? 



119 



120 MARGARET MAIN 

And whether 'twas that Philip's orphanage 

Stole on her heart, for such had been her fate, 

Or whether 'twas that undetected spring 

That bids a soul to soul to gravitate, 

As does that mystic force in central earth, 

That lies concealed beyond all human ken, 

With substance, drawing all with tyrant will; 

Be whatsoe'er the cause, in spite of all 

Deep in her secret heart she loved him well. 

For smothered fires may smoulder, but they burn. 

And Philip as the rosy clouds of youth 
Bore on unto the tropic-line of life, 
From sometime hovering between the two, 
Felt his affections on their native bent 
Select between the dove's and eagle's flight, 
The summer sunset and the noontide heat, 
And Barbara he chose. 

And then he came 
In comely manhood with a pleading tongue, 
Youth's proud bearing, love-enkindled eyes, 
And wandering with her in the twilight dim, 
Down where a shallow, chattering, little stream 
Plunged in and hid itself among the fields, 
He took her fluttering little hands in his, 
And spoke his love. 

But she, with gentle heed 
Of Margaret, and the trust she had reposed, 
And not to deal in underhanded way, 
First said him nay; but with averted head, 
And eyes she could not trust to look in his. 



MARGARET MAIN 121 

And he persistent pressed her more and more. 
She now in yielding, now in firmer mood, 
Had put him off, and put him off again, 
Until her own love triumphed, and she gave 
Her promise and they were together bound. 

And soon this came to Margaret: and she 

Now filled with hate confronted Barbara, 

And fixed her with a long and stony stare. 
"And you have been my friend?" 

"Nay Margaret, hear! 

I pray you hear me ere you cast me off!" 
"No! You betrayed me and my trust. You used 

The word I gave to steal his heart away. 

You practiced on me with your mean design, 

And for your end!" 

"No, no; I did for you, 
Dear Margaret, all that you would have me do. 
I ever spoke your praise when he was by. 
I praised your beauty: praised your gentle mien: 
I more than praised your cheerfulness and worth, 
And found no flaw or fault whate'er. Your cause, 
With deftest art, I laid before his eyes, 
And strove to have him make it as his own — " 

"And you did this for me? Oh see your craft 
To make yourself the stronger, I away, 
By wearying him with mentionings of me!" 

"Nay, not in craft I did it, but in truth! 
But hear me, Margaret, he would have it so. 
And what I did I did for you. For though 



122 MARGARET MAIN 

I held it from you, as you spoke to me, 
And held it from him, till I gave my vow, 
Yet in all my doing, in my heart 
I loved him, loved him deeply as did you!" 

But Margaret all unmelted by her warmth, 
All untouched by her softness and her truth, 
All unforgiving in her hardened heart, 
With cold disdain a cruel answer made; 

"Your double-dealing will repay you yet! 
Some evil-fortune will o'ertake you yet!" 
She turned and moved away, and all the air 
Seemed laden with the cruel words she spake: 

"Some evil fortune will o'ertake you yet!" 

And Philip wedded Barbara ere long. 
And all the world to them seemed rosy-hued, 
And fairer than the promise of the morn, 
That beams above the fields in early May. 

But Fortune dealt not with him generously, 
Though much he strove. The world and men were hard. 
And children came; and died; until but one 
Remained: a blooming girl of three sweet years, 
With mild eyes shot with Heaven's blue; the light 
That lay within her gentle smile companion with 
The sunshine prisoned in her scattered curls; 
While on her cheek the lily and the rose 
Did ever for the masterv contend. 



MARGARET MAIN 123 

Now Philip, in his struggle with the world, 

Had gained himself a goodly little farm, 

And fertile; but from neighbor far remote. 

And here he wrought, with sweat of daily toil, 

At storing up for Barbara and the babe. 

And one eve in the chill of Autumn-time, 

He went forth gathering fagots for his hearth. 

And, that his beast was jaded with its toil, 

He lingered, resting, later than his wont: 

Lingered till the gloom of Night drew on, 

And Heaven's expanse was spangled with her stars. 

And Barbara much employed about the house, 

With preparation for the evening meal, 

To make the room look bright, and neat, and trim, 

In welcome of him from the biting air, 

Had, often glancing through the casement wide, 

Long listened for his coming on the road; 

But heard it not. Annette, the rosy child, 

With little playthings gathered in its arms, 

Sat, laughed, and gladdened in the firelight's glow, 

For Philip's face awatch. 

And Barbara thought, 
"He cannot hear my voice nor see my face, 
When he is far: but I will set for him 
A lamp within the window; so its light 
May stream far down and greet him on the road." 
And then she sang a tuneful little rhyme, 
Which once she made and fashioned into song: 



124 MARGARET MAIN 

Glow in the West; and window-pane 
That flashes back the glow again: 
Light in the sky that slowly dies, 
And faintly fades to watching eyes; 
Yet linger thou enough to be 
The light to light my love to me. 

Back from the world at close of day, 

His eager footsteps hither stray; 

And mine be the smile to greet and grace 

The look of love upon his face. 

Light in the West; thy splendor be 

The light to light my love to me. 

She took the lamp from off the chimney-shelf, 

And set it, with a burning wisp, aflame ; 

Then tossed the wisp with careless backward throw, 

As though to reach the deep heart of the blaze: 

But, sent with aim misguided, on the shelf 

It struck and bounded off, and, still aflame, 

It settled in the foldings of her robe. 

A moment stood she brushing o'er the lamp, 

Itself a polished globe, then gently slid 

Into a fair and fast dissolving dream, 

How Philip wooed her in the twilight dim, 

Down where the shallow chattering little stream 

Plunged in and hid itself among the fields; 

His manly manner, and his comely form ; 

How he had wed her; and her golden ring; 

The happy hours that crowned their mingled lives, 

The little graves that rose behind the hill, 

And all the while a lurking peril lay 

Close hid within the foldings of her robe. 



MARGARET MAIN 125 

Till of a sudden burst the devouring flame 

And spread upon her, and encompassed her 

With horrid wreath! Then, with piercing shrieks, 

And wildest cries of terror, forth she sped 

In that direction whither he had gone, 

With plaintive wailing, "Save me! — Philip! Save!" 

But there was not human ear to catch her cry: 
There was not human hand to succor her: 
So all undone with agony and fear, 
She fell prostrate down, and writhing lay, 
While the dread demon still around her curled! 

Now Philip, lingering later than his wont, 

Was far away, and did not hear her cry. 

And anon, when drawing homeward, spied 

The distant brightness of his window-pane. 

But nearer to him saw he moving lights, 

Heard hurrying footsteps and the cries of pain, 

And drawing on, he asked of one who ran 

Back from the scene the cause. And he, 

Who knew the voice of Philip, said, "Pride, be calm! 

It is your wife!" And Philip, shocked and stunned, 

At what he knew not; fetching in his breath, 

Ran staggering on and thrust in 'mongst the crowd, 

And fell down by her with a mighty cry 

Of terror: and questioning them the cause. 

Then softly, when they told, he lifted her, 
And bore her gently to their little home. 



126 MARGARET MAIN 

O the anguish of that dreadful night ; 
The grief of spirit and the pain of frame! 
As the slow hours waned her poor life lay 
Fluttering in the dawning of the end ; 
Faintly, feebly, until died the dark, 
And then with hand within her Philip's hand, 
Rest and sweet peace fell on her; and her soul 
Went out to meet and greet the morning stars. 

And Philip went from that morn a stricken man. 
And soon a sickness seized him, and he lay 
Broken in heart and hope, sick in mind, 
Only rallying for his daughter's sake, 
And only feebly then. An so he died. 
And slow they bore him just beyond the hill, 
xA.nd there among the tiny little graves, 
They laid him down to slumber at the side 
Of her he living ever loved so well. 

And Margaret came and took the little child 
And set it in her home. For kinsmen's death 
Had left her now a person of estate, 
Though still unwed. And ever when it raised 
Its little voice in tearful wonderment, 
Calling for the face that never came; 
"Mother! Father! Where has Mother gone?" 
She folded it upon her virgin breast; 
Smoothed its sun-crowned brow; kissed its tears; 
And softly said: "I am your Mother, child." 



£ 



TANTALUS 



(A little bird flew into the great dining-hall of the Grand Union Hotel 
at Saratoga, and took refuge in the heavy upholstery of the upper part 
of the windows: and although the guests and servants were particular 
to leave doors and windows open for its escape, it would not descend; 
but after fluttering hopelessly amid the forest of the chandeliers for six 
days, it fell to the floor dead. It had starved, while the guests were 
feasting at the tables below. Upon the incident the following poem 
was written.) 



A tiny songster, borne on flitting wing, 

Did, headlong flying, through a window spring. 

It was the window of a dining-hall, 

Hung heavy-curtained 'gainst the sunlight's fall. 

Here, strongly prisoned, did it restless flee, 
'Mid vaulted arches seeking to be free. 

Its flight contriving held in upper air, 
Did it poise lower — see escape was there! 

For men in pity Freedom's pathway show, 
And door and window wide and open throw. 

There, hourly trooping, came a hungry throng, 
As waves succeeding ocean's shores along. 



127 



128 TANTALUS 

There gleaming tables, set with dainty meat, 
And countless viands, spread beneath its feet. 

In large profusion lay the goodly cheer, 

The broad world's bounty, gathered far and near. 

But the poor songster, faint with drooping plume, 
Felt Famine's anguish hurrying on its doom; 

And feebly fluttering o'er the plenty spread, 
Fell starved and dying for a crust of bread! 

So to the human, as the bird, this is; 

Man — King of Being — finds such fate is his. 

In this world's fashion, some, with hungry eye, 
View others' splendor; and viewing meanly die. 

See rich abundance heaped on every hand! 

And they so needy: wherefore are they banned? 

Full worlds of Beauty, seen on every side; 
But, saving to the favored few, denied: 

Lips that speak a welcome; eyes of brilliancy; 
Near, near; but, dreamer, far, far, from thee. 

So Moses, viewing, saw from Pisgah's height, 
The Land of Promise — yet died with but the sight! 

Thus, hedged with plenty, are we oft restrained, 
And faint with, near us, fullness unattained. 



THE STANDARD-BEARER 

Cheerily, cheerily, rose the morn. 

Into the field the standard-bearer 
Headed the line with banner and horn. 

Oh, will he come back when the day is done? 

Drearily, drearily, from the dawn, 

She watched, and wept, and oft repeated; 

'Alas, the light of my life is gone! 

Oh, will he come back when the day is done?" 

Steadily, steadily, wore away 

The shock, and smoke, and clash of battle. 
With a shot in his breast the soldier lay, 

And he never came back when the day was done. 



<£ 



129 




TUCCIA* 



*See Note i at end. 

Where the yellow Tiber winds, 

By the city's outer gate, 
Stands a maiden at the river, 
Quick in speaking: 
Sadly seeking, 
Issue of her coming fate. 

Bands of dead-gold bind her brow: 

A sieve she holds within her hands. 
While the ruddy sunset's glory 
Slowly failing, 
Long and trailing 
Streams her shadow o'er the sands. 

"Gods on high Olympus gathered, 
Hear me make my prayer to thee! 
Well ye know that I have kept me 
As a vestal 
Pure as crystal, 
Free from all impurity. 



130 



TUCCIA 131 

'But, behold, around me rise 

Blasts of vilest Slander's breath, 
From one evil tongue proceeding, 
Whose base sighing 
I denying, 
He would doom me unto death! 



"I, O Gods! on ye rely! 

Do some miracle to prove 
I am stainless! I this sifter 
Plunge in Tiber, 
Frame and fibre, 
And aside the wavelets move! 

"Be I guilty: when I lift it 

From the keeping of the tide, 
As its wont is let the water 
From it dripping 
Fall, and slipping 
Back into the river glide. 

"But if I be spotless: then 

Let its mesh and silver brink 

Closely hold the flood that fills it 

Hold as surely 

And securely, 

As a basin made for drink!" 



132 TUCCIA 



In she boldly sank the sieve; 
High she lifted it in air; 
With no single drop of water 
From it flowing, 
In her going 
With it to the Praetor's chair. 

Down the bustling Appian Way, 

Went the virgin, firm and sure, 

Bearing still the brimming vessel, 

With the staring 

Crowd declaring; 
"See the Gods have shown her pure!" 

Then they seized the wretch who made 
The charge of foul unchastity ; 
Cast him from the rock Tarpeian: 
And a vestal 
Pure as crystal, 
Tuccia was judged to be. 





MOUNTAIN MEADOWS* 

Hills, low-lying, skirt a grassy plain, 

Where years agone was wrought a deed of Cain; 

And vengeance cried for unoffending slain. 

Where slopes the mead in summer verdure drest, 
Stretched t'ward the gateways of the Golden West, 
A winding train of wagons onward pressed. 

Deep-freighted with the dearest ties of life, 
Their worldly all, the charge of child and wife, 
These sons of toil sought for a new world's strife. 

But there a deamon horde in ambush lay; 
Of savage leaders thirsting for their prey: 
Devoid of pity, stern, flint-hearted, they, 

When once the captives in possession stood, 
Turned loose their hell-born hate, a raging flood, 
And in an hour were gorged with murdered blood. 



•Note 2 at end. 

183 



134 MOUNTAIN MEADOWS 

Shall laws of God and man be held for naught? 
Shall Justice not arise and men be taught, 
That soon or late she taketh whom she ought? 

Yea, though she lags clogged hard of feet and limbs! 
Yea, though in sluggishness her eyesight dims; 
Yet turns she ever, and her lamp she trims, 

To pierce the night with penetrating ray, 
To search the utmost corners of the day, 
And track the culprit as he slinks away. 

As the keen hound, when watchful of the deer, 
That's now in sight and now doth disappear, 
Doth still unto the vanished trace adhere; 

So she, through all the changes that have been; 
Through time wherein the rocks with moss grew green; 
Past clouds of war and all the race hath seen, 

Bore up her torch to guide her rambling tread, 
Reached forth her hand, through all the long years sped, 
And fixed her clutch on one chief-guilty head. 

And then when fell her long-uplifted sword, 

When, flashed, her earth-compounded thunders roared, 

And deadly lightnings on that bosom poured; 

Where hills, low-lying, skirt the grassy plain, 
On which of old was wrought that deed of Cain 
Lo! Vengeance stood appeased for unoffending slain! 



*x» 



A SERENADE 

Come to thy window, love, 

Here by the bowered vine. 
Give me a sight of thy face, love 

Make but the slightest sign; 
That I may say to my heart, love, 

Heart, she is there, she is there; 
And lightly may breathe to my lute, love, 

The praise of my lady so fair. 

Here by thy window, love, 

Under the darkening sky; 
Stand I, and wait for thy voice, love, 

To tell me that thou art nigh. 
Speak, be it only my name, love, 

Uttered in whisperings low, 
Gladly I'll welcome the sound, love : 

My heart will be cheered as I go. 



»^«« 



135 



A 



"I SAW NO TEMPLE THERE" 

"And the angel took me into an exceeding high mountain. And I saw 
the New Jerusalem descending from the throne of God. And there was 
no sun, nor moon, nor any night there. And I saw no Temple therein." 

— St. John the Divine. 

Out of a rush of blinding light, 

Whose glory filled the land, 
There rose an angel clothed in white, 

And took me by the hand. 
He led me to a mountain place, 

Exceeding far and high, 
Wherefrom I pierced all living space, 

Unseen by mortal eye. 
And lo, I saw the Holy Bride, 

Descending from the Throne, 
Whose splendor flashed from side to side, 

In living jewels shone. 

Like rivers flowing molten gold, 

Her streets were smooth and clear: 

Of gems, her portals backward rolled, 
And let her lights appear; 

I saw the concourse of the dead, 
The souls of happy state, 

Whose names in the Book of Life are read, 



136 



I SAW NO TEMPLE THERE 

Come thronging every gate. 
No sun, nor moon: no night, nor dark: 

The light of God shone fair; 
And he who showed me bade me mark, 

I saw no Temple there. 

No Temple! yet the city rang, 

As doth a clarion ring, 
With voices of the saved who sang: 

Hosanna to the King! 
No Temple! yet the ransomed race 

In ceaseless numbers came, 
And mid the Heavenly bands found place; 

All sects and creeds the same. 
No Temple for peculiar prayer 

Or teaching of the Word ; 
But one, and only one, was there, 

The Temple of the Lord. 

Reach out Thine hands, O Lord, and take 

All righteous spirits home! 
Thou wilt not to Thy footstool make 

Our souls one pathway come! 
O teach us to despise the thought, 

To trample down the creed, 
That holds all other forms for naught, 

That not of them proceed! 
Yea, rather make us feel thy ways 

Are many! Make us see 
That paths through every form of praise, 

At last converge to Thee! 



137 



<« 



SONNET 

Thine eyes are wells of tender haze, 

Whene'er thy glance accords to mine. 
And as I sit and longing gaze, 

My soul goes through them into thine. 
So deep and blue they seem to be, 

That I unto their glory slide, 
Down deeps as soundless as the sea; 

By force resistless as the tide. 
Oh, cruel eyes, to lead me there, 

And then to leave me cast away ! 
Look kindly down on my despair, 

And lift me to thy perfect day! 
Since from thy single glance is born, 

The crescent glories of the morn. 



138 






SONGS 
"Love is a Master" 

Love is a master 

Hard and unkind, 
Bringing disaster 

Times out of mind. 
Making us long for 

Objects in vain; 
Sigh that for which we 

May not attain. 
Who hath not found it 

Wringing his breast, 
Drawing around it 

Tears and unrest? 
It is like as if one sought a star in the sky, 
And fell all the farther from soaring so high. 

139 



140 "love is a master" 

Love brings disquiet, 

Rather than peace: 
Hearts are pained by it, 

Never to cease. 
Eyes in whose lashes 

Tears never sprang, 
Fill with warm flashes, 

Feeling its pang. 
Thorns hath it 'stead of 

Roses to give: 
All that it touches 

Ceases to live. 
Oh, if I had but the wings of a dove 
Far would I fly from the madness of love! 



BOAT SONG 
The Broad-Bosomed River 

Pull! pull! the broad-bosomed river 

Merrily rolls down to the sea; 
And lightly o'er the sparkling ripples, 

Glide we down where the billows be. 

chorus : 

Row, row, the river is long, 

And our hearts are light and our arms are strong; 

Row, row, the water is still, 

And we may go wherever we will. 

Swish, swish, the waves on the margin 

Murmur as we hasten along: 
And in the evening winds that fan us, 

Clearly rings our boating song. 

chorus : 

Row, row, the river is long, 

And our hearts are light and our arms are strong: 

Row, row, the water is still, 

And we may go wherever we will. 

141 



142 BOAT SONG 

Clack, clack, the oars in the rowlocks, 

Evenly strike in the river's flow. 
Oh, life for me has not a pleasure, 

Greater than a spirited row! 

chorus : 

Row, row, the river is long, 

And our hearts are light and our arms are strong: 

Row, row, the water is still, 

And we may go wherever we will. 




As down the far hillside the timid deer go 
And fast fly the huntsmen with : Ho, Tally-ho. 
— A Hunting Song 



HUNTING SONG 
"Softly the Morning is Rosy with Light" 

Softly the morning is rosy with light, 

The valleys beneath us are cheery and bright; 

Hark! from below hear the horn and the hound! 

The steeds loudly neighing and pawing the ground. 

Onward past rivulet, forest and brake, 

Still rushing onward their pathway they take, 

As down the far hillside the timid deer go, 

And fast fly the huntsmen with "Ho! Tally ho!" 

Fainter and farther the echoes are borne, 
Back o'er the fields of the rustling corn. 

Oh, sweet is the hunting when balmy's the air, 
When trees lightly murmur and Nature is fair. 



143 



"WHEN SWEEPS THE WIND AT 
SUMMER TIME" 

When sweeps the wind at Summer time, 

Above the bending grain, 
It wakes a day of long ago; 
It wakes a day of long ago, 

And starts my tears like rain. 

My wife and I were long apart, 

And not together bound, 
Save by the child in slumber laid — 
Save by the child in slumber laid, 

Within the village ground. 

And once at fall of Summer's eve, 
No word we spoke or gave. 

But of our own accord we came; 

Each of our own accord we came, 
With flowers for her grave. 

And when we met, within us rose 

The old affection's glow; 
And weeping there w T e kissed anew; 
Oh, weeping there we kissed anew, 
As in the long ago. 

144 



WHEN SWEEPS THE WIND AT SUMMER TIME 145 

And blessings be upon the day, 

That bound our hearts again! 
And this is why the wind at eve — 
Oh, this is why the wind at eve, 

It starts my tears like rain. 



"MY HOME IS THE SEA" 

Not while there's breath in my body, 
Not while the sea beats its shores, 

Find I contentment or pleasure, 
Save where the broad water roars. 

chorus: 

For my home is the sea! Oh, my home in the sea, 
And there alone am I merry and free! 

Dearly I love when the billows, 

Rise in the force of the gale, 
In my proud ship to be rocking, 

On with a full spread of sail. 

chorus: 

'Tis a pleasure to me, Oh, a pleasure to me, 
To skim away from the shores of the sea! 

Only the calling of duty, 

Keeps me awhile on the shore. 
Deeply I long for the moment, 

When I shall sail outward once more. 

chorus: 

And I hope it may be, Oh, I hope it may be, 
That when I die I may sleep in the sea! 



146 






SONNET 

By time and distance am I wise. But yet 
Within my senses, in repose, there clings 
A hollow, vacant, ghost of dead Regret, 
That lives but like the winter violet — 
Alive where all things else are dead; which flings 
An essence speaking faint of fuller things: 
Of glorious Summer, in whose mellow light, 
By meadows, blossom-brightened, and the field, 
I walked, and felt my spirit warm and bright, 
In her sweet look who is my heart's delight; 
And found my day grow clearer from the yield 
Of light from eyes through drooping lids revealed. 
O Time! If thou by some wild witchery, 
Could'st wake again to life that look for me! 




147 




2&&M- 





WINTER GLIMPSES 
The Snow Cloud 

A dull light glimmers in the sky. 
A misty vastness I descry, 
With objects seen but dimly. 

I look aloft, and in the gray 
The eyesight faints and fades away; 
In snow-flakes softly falling. 

Now slant across the field they chase; 
In whirling lines they interlace, 
Like bars of airy lattice. 

A spirit in the winter cloud, 
Spreads o'er the frozen ground a shroud, 
And wraps the hills in ermine. 

See how yon supple holly stands, 
With snow-wreaths, gathered in his hands, 
Begemmed with scarlet berries! 



148 



WINTER GLIMPSES 149 

How to yon high magnolia cleaves 
The snow-growth, lying in its leaves, 
And bending down the branches! 

The cone-shaped cedar leans sidewise: 
With cribbled drift that in it lies 
Its swinging tresses powdered. 

The branches of the naked peach 
Are clad in feathered cloaks; and each 
The shrubs are bunched and muffled. 

I see a traveler on his way. 
His hair and beard are tinged with gray; 
His shoulders wear a tippet. 

I hear the crushing of the snow; 

I see the breath his nostrils blow 

Rise up in wreaths of vapor. 

What wonder is this coming down, — 
This glory of a kingly crown 
Descending out of Heaven? 

What miracle of work is here! 
Beyond the craft of sage or seer, 
The cunning of magician. 

The texture of this downy robe; 
This dazzling cloak that folds the globe; 
This vestment of the winter. 



150 WINTER GLIMPSES 

What splints of glass and crystals fine! 
What prisms, when the light doth shine, 
Upon this swimming whiteness! 

What diamond dust of rarest hue! 
What stars and spangles leap to view, 
Beneath the gaze of lenses! 

Nor made alone for beauty thus, 
But beauty hand in hand with use, 
The blinding dearth is given. 

For first the quickened thing must die, 
And locked in frigid slumber lie, 
Renewed for farther living. 

Oh, the far thought of that all-might, 
That clothes the fields in shining white, 
And makes the cold intenser; 

That earth may for a season sleep, 
And freshened stores of vigor keep, 
To meet the needs of Summer! 

The Sleet 

Abroad the winter rules complete. 
A rain has fallen filled with sleet, 
The snow is hard encrusted. 



WINTER GLIMPSES 

The sun looks down with waning face 
Upon a slippery sea of glace; 
His sway below disputed. 

His light, devoid of fervor, lies 
In tree-boughs lit with rainbow dyes, 
And rimmed with burnished silver. 

The roof a smoother coat receives, 
And, sprouting at the leaky eaves, 
Grows blades of shining poignards. 

Each stalk of weed or withered grass, 
Stands stiffened in a thick cuirass, 
A warrior clad for battle. 

The slender branches, ice-encased, 

Rise up with brittle jewels graced; 

Each twig with frozen opals. 

Yon elm, in many a fold and twist, 
At distance seems a silver mist; 
A vapor fixed and glistening. 

The brooklet bears a pavement laid, 
Like Solomon, imitating, made 
For Balkis Queen of Sheba.* 



151 



'Note i at end. 



152 WINTER GLIMPSES 

What elfin land-view meets my gaze! 
At every turn its splendors blaze 
Upon the lingering vision. 

Oh land excelling fairy dreams, 
Of flashing gems seen in the beams, 
Of lamp of old Aladdin ! 

What coffers furnish this largess? 
The gift of what great King is this, 
So lavish of his riches? 

They flash, they glitter everywhere. 
They fill with light the crisping air, 
Like northern Borealis. 

I grieve not that the winter reigns: 
And frost ferns on the window-panes, 
Are stamped by hidden fingers. 

I take it as His wise command, 

Who in the hollow of his hand, 

Protects the falling sparrow. 

Though I may not the good perceive, 
Yet from afar, I well believe, 
He works a distant purpose. 

And that this purpose is not lost, 
When skies perform the work of frost, 
But shines a steady beacon. 



WINTER GLIMPSES 153 

There is no phase of seeming ill, 
But moving through its anguish still, 
He yields the good foreordered. 



»^<« 




THE DEPARTED YEAR 

Old year, old year, that liest here 
So cold and stark upon thy bier; 
I fold thy hands upon thy breast. 
And pray for thee unbroken rest. 

Gone, gone — yea gone! Thy breath withdrawn. 
Yet ere the rising of the dawn, 
Like fickle courtiers, do we sing; 
"The king is dead! Long live the king!" 

Away, away! In coffined clay 
Such feeble source of strength doth lay; 
We turn from those whose lips are dumb, 
To worship who succeeding come. 



£©»<?©*£€» 



154 




Sweet evening light, sweet evening light 
That fades so softly on the sight 
Live long in yonder rosy West, 
While I upon thy beauties rest. 

— Abendschein 



ABENDSCHEIN 

Sweet evening light, sweet evening light 

That fades so softly on the sight, 

Live long in yonder rosy West, 

While I upon thy beauties rest! 

How full my weary spirit fills 

With grateful peace, when day is done; 

When, streamed through amber skies, the sun 

Dips down below yon purple hills. 

O evening light, sweet evening light! 
Too swift and soon comes on the night; 
And all thy tints of beauty fade, 
In that one all-enfolding shade. 
Here will I rest till yon blue field, 
Is thickly sown with clustered lights; 
And climbing up her eastern heights, 
The silver moon holds out her shield. 

Sweet evening light, sweet evening light, 
O teach me by thry speedy flight, 
That all we love and cherish here, 
In shades of night shall disappear. 
That pleasure all too swiftly flies 
And beauty changes with the day: 
But though all seems to fade away, 
Yet light beyond the darkness lies. 



155 



O-NI-HAH-KET 



Far across the bowl of blue 
Shuddering bursts of silver flew; 
Streaming past the clouds of lead 
Heaped in piling mass o'erhead. 
Down the rugged mountain side 
Roared the blast, a rushing tide, 
Riving in its windy glee, 
Tinted wealth of branch and tree. 
And the thunder's husky roar 
Deepened, swelling more and more, 
Till from out the misty main, 
Dashed the swift-descending rain; 
Falling, in unbroken flow, 
On the dripping world below. 

On a boulder wild and high, 
Outlined on the darkening sky, 
Tall an Indian hunter stood. 
Ranging was he through the wood. 
Wearied in the lengthened chase, 
Hither had he sought a place 
Where, perchance from station high, 
Might he trace of game espy; 
Or beneath the layered steep 



156 



O-NI-HAH-KET 157 

Into friendly shelter creep, 
Where to wait th' impending rain, 
And pursue the hunt again. 

Girt he was with belt of beads, 
Clasping arms for sudden needs. 
In his hand a long bow bent, 
Which the singing arrow sent. 
In his head-band streamed a feather, 
And a suit of buckskin leather 
Clad him as the hunters dress, 
In the lonely wilderness. 

All day had he sought for game. 
Nothing in his range there came. 
Not a red deer came in sight; 
Not a hare to left or right; 
Not a squirrel in the trees; 
Not a pheasant on the breeze. 
Though these last he might despise, 
In a search for higher prize, 
Yet from hunger's cause I trow 
Gladly would he meet them now. 
Hunger, not alone of his. 
Far away his wigwam is. 
There, at morn, his Indian wife, 
Sharer of his hunter life, 
Left he for the tangled brake, 
Where the deer their covert make. 



158 O-NI-HAH-KET 

As the storm drew on apace, 
From his lofty watching place 
Slid he down; intent to wait 
Till its fury should abate. 
First the bow-string did he slack, 
Slung the pouch across his back; 
Down the craggy points he stepped, 
'Neath a jutting ledge he crept, 
Where he lay secure and dry 
While the tempest raved on high. 

Now the thunder's wrath is sped, 

But the day is almost dead. 

As the rain-cloud breaks away 

Light around their edges play. 

In the rosy-margined West 

Dips the sun its flaming crest. 

No more time to speed the chase, 

He will seek his camping place. 

On with nimble feet he flew, 

But when near the spot he drew 

Nothing saw he of his tent, 

Though with searching gaze he bent. 

Had the wind thrown down the poles? 

Blown away the tent-skin folds? 

She who in the morning bright, 

He had left with spirit light, 

Why did she not run to meet him, 

And with ready welcome greet him? 

On he pressed with active bound. 



O-NI-HAH-KET 159 

Drawing to the spot, he found 
Tent and lodge-poles overthrown, 
Wife and wigwam missing — gone! 

Cautiously he peered around, 

Searched for footprints on the ground, 

Looked for traces but in vain; 

All had perished in the rain. 

Scanned the lodge-poles; one was broken. 

Of what thing was this the token? 

More he searched, and then he stopped, 

On his hands and knees he dropped. 

In the failing light at length 

Found what put to flight his strength, 

Made him weak as is a dwarf, — 

Tattered fragment of a scarf. 

These belonged, he well did know, 
To no roving Indian foe. 
Only they of faces white 
Went in such fine garb bedight: 
They whose hated tread had come 
Thundering o'er the Indian's home. 
Tattered were they ; rent and torn, 
As by some marauder worn, 
Grappled in his rude essay, 
Portions had been torn away. 
And the snapped and broken pole 
Spoke a crafty foot that stole 
On the wigwam he had left, 
And by force had wrought a theft. 



160 O-NI-HAH-KET 

Theft of tent-walls; plaited mat; 
Robe of bison; skin of cat; 
Belt, and pipe, and hunting knife; 
More than all, the theft of wife. 
In his mind, he with a glance, 
Saw the deed as in a trance, 
And, with lightning in his eye, 
Read her maddening destiny. 

Turning, rushed he to the river, 
Drew an arrow from his quiver, 
Sent on its whizzing flight, 
Upwards in the fields of night. 
Ere it, falling, reached the tide, 
Wailing, he in anguish cried: 
"Spirit of the earth and air, 
Hark to O-ni-hah-ket's prayer! 
Make me strong, and make me tough; 
Give my sinews strength enough, 
That I neither fail nor sleep 
While I watch untiring keep 
For this stealthy coward hound 
Who hath dashed me to the ground! 
Let me track his dastard feet! 
Let me know him when we meet ! 
Give to me to see him bleed! 
Give me vengeance for the deed!" 
Forward in the dark he ran, 
And his sorrowing search began. 



O-NI-HAH-KET 161 

Flush of sunset, red and gold, 
Tips the hills and paints the wold; 
And the last receding ray, 
Lingering o'er the grave of day, 
Falls upon an armed command, 
Part of bold DeSoto's band; 
He who sailed from ancient Spain, 
Drawn with hope of power and gain, 
Tending in an aimless quest, 
To the New World in the West. 
Touching at the sloping coast, 
He, with all his daring host, 
Landed from the lapping bay, 
On a certain Whitsunday; 
So it proved, by moon and star, 
And the churchly calendar. 
And to all the coast afar, 
They gave the name of "Florida." 
For from every sward and glade, 
Marge of fern and breadth of shade, 
Bursting floweret, bud and bloom, 
Filled the air with dense perfume. 
So the land was called, and yet 
Bears the name upon it set. 

Westward, these determined few 
Pushed into the region new, 
Trusting they should soon behold 
Rocks that yield the yellow gold. 
Westward pushed they day by day; 



162 O-NI-HAH-KET 

Westward still the ore-land lay; 
Westward till they reached a stream, 
Broad and wide its windings seem; 
Stream that with the Indians known is, 
By the native name So-to-nis. 

Out from these a smaller band 
Wandering southward through the land, 
Following where the river bent, 
On a luckless foray went. 
Wearied with their lengthened tramp, 
On its bank they pitched their camp, 
There to rest in sleep profound, 
And the morrow push beyond. 

Swart of face and big of bone, 
Stood they where the fire-light shone, 
Lighting spears and coats of mail, 
Greaves of steel and skirts of scale. 
Sword and musket, lance and plume, 
In the flickering picture loom, 
As around the camp-fire drew 
This determined, rugged few. 

From the circle stepping out, 
One hallooed with lusty shout: 
Listened as to catch reply 
In some distant, answering cry. 
Hearing none, again he cried; 
But no answering shout replied. 



O-NI-HAH-KET 163 



In the wood not far away, 
There a crouching Indian lay, 
Peering through the walls of night 
At the group around the light. 
Long he looked, then slowly rose, 
As averse a tiger goes 
From the idly wandering thing 
In the circuit of his spring. 
Noiselessly he moved awhile, 
Up the river half a mile; 
Silent slid into the tide, 
And swam to the other side. 
By a rock he found a place, 
Lying prone upon his face 
With the camp-fire well in sight, 
Shining with its twinkling light. 
As he lay upon the ground, 
Oft and o'er he caught the sound 
Of that far-resounding shout, 
In the night-winds borne about. 
Once he thought his wakeful ear 
Caught a distant answering cheer; 
Then a halloo, loud and shrill. 
After that the camp was still. 

Mists of morning, cold and gray, 
Dim the rising light of day. 
But the camp is all arrayed 
For the journey to be made. 
Down unto the river-side 



164 O-NI-HAH-KET 

Now four hardy soldiers stride, 
Bearing two small birch canoes, 
Such as those the Indians use; 
Launched them in the rushing tide, 
And made for the other side. 

Thrice the boats have ferried o'er: 
Thrice have sought the former shore. 
All across the stream have gone 
But a wretched captive one, 
And her captor, stern and hard, 
Standing near her as a guard. 

Waiting now the shallops heave, 
And he motions her to leave. 
To the first boat does he haste, 
In the other she is placed. 
Then they thrust into the stream, 
And the paddles dip and gleam. 

Now the first boat grates the sands, 
And upon the bank he stands. 
Twined about his neck there lies 
A bright scarf of mingled dyes. 

By the rock the Indian hid 
From his waiting ambush slid; 
Trembling with a mighty shiver, 
Drew an arrow from his quiver, 
Fitted it upon the string, 
And his best aim summoning, 



O-NI-HAH-KET 165 

Drew it backward full its length, 
Shot it with his utmost strength 
At the wearer of the tie, 
Soft with many a mingled dye. 
And the keen barb deep impressed 
Where the throat joins to the breast, 
Piercing in its swerveless flight 
Through the scarf of colors bright. 

As the Spaniard downward fell 
From the savage burst a yell; 
Loud exulting; while in air 
Tossed his right arm, brown and bare. 

Startled by his sudden fall, 
Grouped in rank, his comrades all 
Stand arrayed, and wait the foe 
Who has dealt the deadly blow. 
Only they one figure see, 
Standing bold and fearlessly. 
At the target offered thus 
Each one aimed his blunderbuss 

But the figure does not move, 
Smites his breast his will to prove, 
And exclaims, with flashing eye, 
"O-ni-hah-ket scorns to fly!" 

Bellow loud the thunders then; 
Speed the lightning bolts of men; 
And the Indian, with a bound, 



166 O-NI-HAH-KET 

Lifeless sinks upon the ground, 
On his face revenge expressed; 
Twenty bullets in his breast. 

Hardly hill and valley caught 

Echoes of the loud report, 

When there burst a fearful shriek, 

Shrill as from an eagle's beak, 

Rising from the other boat, 

In the river yet afloat. 

And the captive from its side 

Leaped into the sweeping tide. 

Act to stop her was in vain; 

Sank she and ne'er rose again. 

Centuries and more have gone 
Since these bloody deeds were done. 
Where the Indian hunter died, 
Lo! a city sits in pride: 
City that its name obtains 
From the rock, that still remains, 
First rock from the river's mouth 
As you journey from the South, 
And behind whose ragged shelf 
O-ni-hah-ket hid himself. 

Busy mart and crowded street, 
Loaded wain, and hurrying feet, 
Towering houses, stone and brick, 
Store and factory, huddled thick, 



O-NI-HAH-KET 167 



These the traveler meets to-day, 
Where of old these mishaps lay. 
And of all the busy throng, 
As they rush and push along, 
None of all the people know, 
O-nf-hah-ket sleeps below. 



;s»s^s«* 






THE RICHEST PRINCE 



(Translated from the German of Justin Kerner.) 



Boasting of their kingdoms' riches, 
And their wealth in glowing terms, 

Sat a group of German princes, 
In the Kaiser's Hall at Worms. 

"Lordly," said the Saxon ruler, 
"Is my kingdom and its might. 
Silver yield its rugged mountains, 
Dug from mines as dark as night." 

"Sits my land in splendid plenty," 
Said the elector from the Rhine, 

"Golden grain within the valleys: 
On the mountains noble wine." 

"Crowded cities, wealthy cloisters," 
Louis of Bavaria claimed, 

"Make my land a state as worthy 
As the best that you have named." 



168 



THE RICHEST PRINCE 169 

Everard, the flowing-bearded, 

Wurtemberg's beloved lord, 
Said: "My land has only hamlets; 

Does no silver-mine afford. 

"But its people are such treasures 
That in forests, wild and dread, 
In the lap of humblest subjects, 
I can safely lay my head." 

Then upspake the Saxon ruler, 
Louis, and the one from Rhine: 
"Bearded count, you are the richest! 
All our claims must yield to thine." 





THE DROUGHT 

Dry, dry, the grasses lie, crisping in the sun. 
Red, red, the sky o'erhead flames when the day is done. 
Days, days, the burning rays bake the cracking ground. 
Breeze, breeze, in rustling leaves, ye were a welcome 
sound! 

Far, far, the heavens are: naked is the sky. 
Thin, thin, the grigs begin to pipe a thirsty cry. 
Limp, limp, the corn leaves crimp, wilting ear and blade. 
Low, low, the cattle blow, sweltering in the shade. 

Down, down, the sun's disc, round, drops; but glowing 

still. 
Long, long, shadows throng, creeping down the hill. 
Soon, soon, the argent moon shall her arc disclose; 
Then, then, to languid men comes a glad repose. 



170 



THE SUMMER RAIN 

Clouds, clouds, lowering clouds, in the western sky! 
Clouds, clouds, towering clouds, piled up mountain high! 
See, see, the lightning, free, trickles in a stream! 
Bright, bright, the heavens light, and glow in silver gleam. 

There, there, high in air, the swift-shot merlin flies; 
Skims, skims, flitting swims, ere the winds arise. 
Now, now, the mountain brow, with bounding echoes ring. 
Deep, deep, the thunders keep a sullen muttering, 

Dull, dull, the clouds are full of vapor and of rain. 
Flash, flash, the thunder's crash rumbles o'er the plain. 
Fast, fast, the roaring blast drives the herdsmen home. 
Here, here, swift and clear, the pattering raindrops come! 



C-&C-&C-* 



171 



bn s& 



THE FUGITIVE 
Dactylics 

Winds of the winter-time, sighing to wearily 
O'er the wild wastes of the wide-spreading moor 

Wail in thy saddest tones, lowly and mournfully, 
Fit for my spirit, dejected and poor. 

Mine was a sunny life, freed from adversity, 
Knowing no grief, till a perjurer came 

Making me promises, covered with blandishments: 
Winning me, only to leave me in shame. 

Ah! who can measure the limits of wickedness, 
Frenzy may lead the prone heart to commit? 

Mocked he me, till, with a human-forged thunder-bolt, 
Sent I his soul to the bottomless pit. 

Craftily laid I the weapon at side of him, 

Meaning the finder should think that the dead 

Came to his end by design, or by accident; 
Then in the stillness of evening I fled. 

Many a day have I gone undiscovered, 

Save by the eye ever present to see: 
Save by the conscience that fills me with images, 

Pointing forever its finger at me. 

172 



THE FUGITIVE 173 

Even the leaves of the red-wooded Autumn-time, 
Pattering so lightly down, startle mine ear: 

Full is the night-tide with figures of guiltiness: 
Filled is my sleep with the quakings of fear. 

Winds of the winter-time, sighing so wearily, 
Freeze with thy nipping breath icy and dread! 

Rather than wander a ghost-haunted fugitive, 
Better ye wailed o'er me pulseless and dead. 

Better I lay like the leaves of the season past, 
Wrapped in the mouldering embrace of the clay; 

Better the night and the darkness came over me, 
Closing the woes of my soul-tortured day. 



S^£«»£«» 



The following poem was read at a meetting of the Social Reading 
Club at my house, May 30, 1877, and was written for that occasion. It 
was omitted from the first publication of my poems because of its being 
local only. It is now here inserted at the instance of friends. 

Fay Hempstead. 

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 

"Haec olim meminisse juvabit." — Virgil. 

What is hanging the crane ; and pray what does it mean ? 
I've been asked on a dozen occasions, I ween, 
Since I happened some evenings ago to explain, 
That your coming would furnish the hanging the crane. 
The questions have sprung from a humorous source, 
And were thought to be very amusing, of course: 
For I knew at the time that the questioners spoke, 
That they asked for the purpose of cutting a joke. 
I've been asked if I should, with a gallows and strings, 
Hang that long-legged bird of the milky-white wings, 
That stalks through the marsh after worms and such 

things. 
One, spouting Law Latin, with countenance solemn 
Has inquired; should the bird be "suspensus per collumf* 
Joke the last (and the worst) has almost made me dumb; 

174 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 175 

Was the crane I would hang any kin of cran-i-umf 
Has there ever a greater depravity been? 
It is surely a trace of original sin. 
But to answer the punsters, the monsters, and make 
A theme of the subject alone, for their sake, 
Let me beg your attention a moment or two, 
While I tell, if I can, what it is that they do 
At the hanging the crane — an early day rite, 
That has now, more or less, been quite dropped out of 
sight. 

Pendre le cremaillere, in French — to hang the crane, 

Means what we in English speech contain, 

When we would say a person first intends, 

In a new house to entertain his friends. 

The same as if one said in homelier phrase; 
"There'll be a house-warming up at Col. Fay's." 

Now be it known that this uncouth parlance, 
"To warm a house," meant with a good old dance, 

And sure I know no better way, but still 

There are some other things that fill the bill. 

For I maintain a house need not be stormed 

With flying feet alone to have it warmed. 

It may as well be so by groups of friends, 

Assembled to accomplish different ends; 

With merry laughter, or with pleasant chat; 

Or swapping jokes, and all the like of that. 

And since by all of these — and here's the rub, 

Why may it not be by a Reading Club? 



176 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 

But in a new house. And is this newly made, 

Which for some years has cast its humble shade, 

Through Winter's storms, and singeing Summer's suns, 

Above my head, my wife's, and little one's? 

Why, yes! The definition still is shown. 

For lately hath it so by adding grown, 

That it may well give rise unto a doubt, 

Like that the Grecians once conferred about; 

Which was: if thing by time and age decayed, 

Should be by renovation newly made, 

Would they remain the things they were before? 

Or be new things: and maybe something more? 

(I much suspect they'd little else to do.) 

'Twas out of this the disputation grew. 

The ships of Jason, when in port they lay, 

Were patched and mended, as they dropped away, 

Until it came to pass, in lapse of years, 

That all of each ship had undergone repairs. 

And then a wrangle rose upon the spot ; 

Were these the ships that sailed, or were they not? 

And if not, were they other ships, or what? 

And the more they talked the more confused they got! 

In truth I much prefer it should appear 

To be a new house, than an old affair. 

I own that weakness shared by not a few: 

/ rush regardless for the thing that's new. 

I am not like that maiden of our day, 

Who longed for things of epochs passed away, 

And in her deep aversion to the new, 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 177 

Would buy a hearth-rug from a crafty Jew. 
"I like the rug, but, sir, I would be told 

Upon your honor, is it really oldf" 
"Olt! Mein freund! ash I hopshe dish nite to sup, 

It falsh to pieshesh ven you picks em up!" 

Enough for her. She madly closed the trade, 
And sought her dwelling, a contented maid. 

That more than half is new is very clear, 
And you the first that have assembled here. 
The case is made. My effort's not in vain, 
And this becomes the hanging of the crane. 

This crane in ancient culinary art, 

Fulfilled a great and most important part. 

'Twas nothing other than an iron frame, 

Of angle shape, suspended o'er the flame; 

And on its stiff, protruding arm were strung, 

The pots and kettles, all in order hung. 

For these were days when men lived plenteously, 

When loud the wide-throat chimney roared with glee, 

When all men cooked before an open fire, 

And meat, slow-browned, suspended on a wire: 

When half an ox, a not unusual bit, 

Lay baked and crisp, revolving on a spit. 

The high-heaped logs shot forth a quivering blaze, 

And flared so bright as most to blind the gaze, 

And up the chimney drove the sparks in shoals, 

And scorched the hand that tried to stir the coals — 

The very subject make me feel a glow. 



178 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 

Compared to it the modern stove is slow. 
And who could write upon a stove a sonnet? 
Both stove and subject have a damper on it. 

Well, since no man with hunger can compete, 
A house without a kitchen were incomplete: 
For Meredith in Lucile well observes, 
How high a rank the humble cook deserves: 
And says that of the many things a sinner 
May do without, he can't go sans his dinner. 
And so it came that when the crane was hung, 
'Twas next to having bell for dinner rung. 
It meant that here they found a place prepared, 
From which at call would goodly things be shared; 
The house complete, and this the source of lunch, 
As often as a guest would come and munch, 
To lay the corner-stone and hang the crane 
In order due, were ceremonies twain, 
To which each mansion-house was liable. The one 
When it began, the other when 'twas done. 

How very much the usage is above 
The vexing thing of putting up a stove! 
Does life contain a task of meaner type, 
Than to fit the sections of a rusty pipe? 
As Brutus, in the play we last did try, 
"My countrymen, I pause for a reply!" 

Such was, my friends, this rite of earlier day, 
Which now, I say, has mostly passed away. 
I here adopt all that it signifies. 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 179 

I hang the crane, "with all the name implies." 

And to put a proper ending to this strain, 

I'll add another meaning to the crane. 

So long as I, by either luck or toil, 

Shall get wherewith "to make the pot to boil;" 

So long as there shall be within the pot, 

A cut to stew, or even if there's not, 

I'll bid that friend thrice welcome to my board, 

Who'll come and take what "pot luck" doth afford. 



S»S^«©i? 



REDIVIVUS 



A poem read before the Sans Souci Club, Little Rock, at the resi- 
dence of E. W. Gibb, Esq., upon the occasion of opening the new 
house, April 29th, 1879. 



Just sixteen months ago I think, to count the seasons 

right, 
I was comfortably snoozing on a cold December night. 
The time, to speak exactly, was the closing of the year: 
And this I know for reasons that shall presently appear. 
I had nestled in the blankets with but just my nose 

exposed, 
And I sank to sleep the instant that my heavy eyelids 

closed. 
I fell to rapid dreaming, but of what I hardly know, 
I cannot recall precisely, it has been so long ago : 
But this much I do remember, that I dreamed I was 

a drum ; 
Not a little kettle fellow on which boys and children 

thrum, 
But a great big, round, distended thing, puffed out and 

cumbersome. 
I was bigger than the biggest and with thumbs behind 

the snares, 
I strutted and I swelled about, with most prodigious 

airs. 



180 



REDIVIVUS 181 

Along there came a fellow with a bludgeon in his clutch, 
And threw me flat upon my back, and beat me overmuch. 
Boom ! boom ! boom ! he took me, and I never shall forget 
The violence of his poundings, for I think I feel them yet, 
I tried to shout, and doing so — I'm telling you no fibs, 
I woke — to find the baby busy, kicking at my ribs. 

I moved a little out of reach and slumbered as before; 
My wife suggests — accompanied by a rather healthy 

snore. 
I'll not dispute just here the point, though governed by 

some doubt; 
I was never so conditioned that myself could find it out ; 
I slumbered with that soundness that all worldly care 

dispels, 
Till my leaden ear was smitten by the distant clang of 

bells. 
"Bells? Bells! Oh yes!" I said, "The Old Year dies 

to-night. 
They're ringing out and in again. Well, let 'em ring! 

All right!" 

I was just once more relapsing when I heard them 

sound again, 
As if the tongues of demons made a terrible refrain. 
"Good gracious !" cried I, starting: "That's no Old 

Year ringing out! 
Just hear them! That's a fire raging somewhere I've no 

doubt ! 
I wonder on whose chattels, now, this evil blow descends. 
I truly hope it's none of mine, nor any of my friends'." 
I rushed out in the cold air, in a somewhat scanty dress, 



182 REDIVIVUS 

To see which of my neighbors had been smitten with 

distress ; 
Yonder it is! Off yonder! 'Way up against the sky, 
A lurid light and heavy smoke is mounting wild and 

high! 
I dressed and posted on the road, and, guided by the 

light, 
I followed till I came upon a melancholy sight. 
A happy home enveloped in a roaring wrath of flame, 
And gone to utter ruin past all power of reclaim. 
For just as I arrive there, see, the walls have fallen in! 
And a shoal of lighted cinders on a whirling flight 

begin ! 

A place where you and I, O friends, were often enter- 
tained, 

Where cheerfulness and welcome in an ample measure 
reigned ; 

But gone to dust and ashes now, with all that it 
contained. 

The sun of that December day as it sank beneath the 
plain, 

Looked down upon a pleasant home it never saw again. 

And that next day was New Year's day. A sad 

reception that! 
A general shade of sadness mid the day's rejoicings sat. 
For each one felt a share of loss upon himself was 

placed, 
That so bright and glad a spot as this was cancelled and 

erased. 



REDIVIVUS 



183 



I grant you, friends, the subject is a worthy one for 

tears ; 
The destruction in a moment of the gathering up of 

years. 
But since it's done and over, let us turn the brighter 

side, 
And smile amid the gladness by the present case supplied. 
For moulded on the ruins of that oft-regretted home, 
Behold we find another — with a more pretentious dome: 
A splendor even greater than belonged unto the last, 
Surpassing what we held in thought could never be 

surpassed : 
The same kind hearts are inside, and it holds its 

ancient wont 
Of a warm and ready greeting — in a more imposing 

front. 

So, often do we notice when the old is overthrown, 
That from the seed it scatters is a stronger scion grown : 
And though the breaking of the first brings tears into 

the eyes, 
Yet good beneath the evil comes, a blessing in disguise. 
For "Time sets all things even." It is this the Laureate 

sings, 
That men may rise on stepping-stones from dead to 

higher things. 
For nothing is, but issues from a former different state. 
The new receive not being, till the older forms abate. 
And so we see, wherever in the search for truth we 

range, 



184 REDIVIVUS 

That all improvement marches through the open gates 
of change. 

So here, from out the hard and thorough trial of the past, 
The good, still creeping onward, in a higher form is cast : 
And lo, we have a mansion, which, beside the other set, 
Should quench all lingering embers in the ashes of regret. 
And in its bright and cheery walls, thus fashioned once 

again, 
The gathering of this circle makes the " Hanging of the 

Crane." 

May thousand years of peace and plenty dawn for its 

behoof, 
And generations gather in the compass of its roof! 

But let me draw, before I close, a moral from my text. 
To all some evil cometh, and none knows who may be 

next. 
Who ever saw a year without a cloud? I'm sure I 

never. 
Nor ever saw a day without — well — that is — hardly ever. 
And so to each one, sometime, some misfortune doth 

befall: 
Mischance by some approach arrives, in measure great 

or small: 
And if it falls to you, O friends, may you from your 

distress, 
Rise, like another Phoenix, in a brighter kind of dress. 




NEMESIS 

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay. 

Though I delay for a century will I begin, 
And terribly smite. If the Fathers partake of the grape, 

The teeth of the children are set upon edge for their 
sin. 

The eyesight fails: men's hearts grow arid and dry, 
Grow arid and dry, resolving again into dust, 

Waiting reward for an evil done in their day, 
And seeing it not. Yet there cometh requittal; and 
must. 

If not in a way and a day long-looked-for and watched, 
It cometh when no one observes: like a thief in the 
night : 
Yea, it follows the races on evenly unto the last, 

And strikes down some scion, ill-starred, with a pitiless 
might. 

For the doings of men, they are not like the seeds that 
we sow, 
And can dig up again from the sod while the planting 
is new; 
But instantly have their effect, be it pleasure or pain, 
And afterwards work a result in the years that ensue. 



185 



186 NEMESIS 

O man, thou that walkest in the pride of thy vaunted 
strength, 
Beware how thou makest a pit for descendants to fill! 
Each man's sins in his own body bear their appropriate 
reward. 
Enough if he suffer his own: and not from another's 
ill. 

Yet God is not an avenging God, so much as of doing 
good ; 
Showing us favor and kindness far in excess of pain; 
Even as He shows upon earth far more of the sun and 
the shine ; 
Far more of the bright and the glad, than He does of 
the storm and the rain. 

For though unto those that hate me will I visit and send, 
To the fourth generation of children, the sins from 
their father's hands, 
Yet, saith the Lord, will I untold mercy and gentleness 
show, 
To thousands of generations of those, that love me and 
keep my commands. 




Poem read at the banquet to General U. S. Grant, at little Rock, 
April 15, 1880, in response to the toast, 

"WOMAN" 

I look beyond a waste of faded days, 
And as upon a landscape rest my gaze. 
As one who slowly journeys on may stand, 
And backward look across a travelled land. 
I seem to see fair tracts of Summer time — 
Deep-purpled vistas in a noonday clime — 
That glow like a garden blooming in its prime. 
Broad fields there are where falls a mellow light, 
That chains the eye and captivates the sight; 
That on whatever comes within its sphere 
Casts a wide glory, shining fair and clear; 
And beaming far and wide, with full largess 
Sends the bright rays of joy and happiness. 



And there are basking in this radiant light, 

Enchanted isles where joys untold unite. 

Sweet breadths of flowers ; long groups of leaf and bloom, 

A luxury of color and perfume. 

The idle wind goes laden with the sweets, 



187 



188 "woman" 

Drawn from each blossom-treasure-house he meets. 
And there is sound of laughter, clear and strong; 
And waves of merry music: voice of song, 
That gains the ear and then anon doth fail, 
As though some happy-throated nightingale, 
Flung forth sweet cadences o'er plain and vale. 

Whence is this light? — I ask — and where doth lie 
This land whose splendor fascinates the eye? 
And lo, a whispered answer maketh known. 
This pleasing land in mirrored image shown 
Is Life: the softened light upon it thrown 
Is Woman s presence. She, the topping crest, 
And crown of Man — the fairest and the best; 
The finer portion of created things, 
Around whose name a sense of reverence clings; 
The purer gold drawn from the rougher ore; 
The daintier extract from the work before; 
One step from grossness in her make displayed, 
Man rose from dust, but she from Man was made. 
Last to be fashioned by the hand Divine; 
Placed at the summit of His wise design; 
Whom having made the Builder's work was done. 
She closed the scheme in ages past begun. 

Fit ending to the world's all-seeing plan, 
In whose great works the masterpiece was Man; 
Fit that the finishing touches to the race, 
Should be bestowed in woman's form and face. 



"woman" 189 

So in clear-spoken tones replied the voice, 
And bade me from a thankful heart rejoice, 
That the light of Woman's beauty and her truth, 
Makes like a Summer-land the paths of life and youth. 

O, heart of Man, that liest dead and dry, 

Like arid plains beneath a burning sky; 

Such art thou if no Woman's presence shine 

Upon thy path: no heart to beat as thine. 

Oh, rather pray, her truth and purity 

May shine above thy life, as stars shine on the sea! 



&&>£&■&&> 






POEM 

Read before the Alumnae of the Arkansas Female College, 
Little Rock, June 2, 1880. 



Whoever notes the progress of the sun, 
From early morn until the day is done, 
Will see grave changes pass upon its face, 
That makes the staple of its daily race. 

First he will see the light of morning dawn, 
— A rosy flush above the horizon drawn — 
Then o'er the landscape's marge a rising light, 
Break into life and grow upon the sight; 
And as he gazes, lo, a shining shield, 
Full and complete, is to the eye revealed. 
Large and broad-visaged doth the disc appear, 
But shorn of warmth; a crimson-tinted sphere. 

So swift it moves! Almost one may descry 
Its upward motion as it mounts the sky. 
Higher it climbs, and now the heat is more, 
But see! its pace is tardier than before. 
It gains the zenith ! lo it seems to stand — 
Its progress lost — a luminary grand ; 



190 



POEM 191 

From out whose blazing orb a shower of heat, 
In stinging arrows, falls beneath our feet. 
But shrunken now. Drawn smaller than the ball, 
Whose blood-red banner scaled the Eastern wall; 
The greater heat: the more unbridled sway, 
But less in size than graced the rising day. 

You scarce will mark its progress through the sky, 

By shifting shadow, or by glancing eye. 

The summit gained it lags with tardy pace, 

As loth to reach it's daily burial-place. 

At length, receding from its lofty cope, 

Begins its journey down the western slope. 

Faster it goes; and faintly falls the ray, 

Till, last, when lingering o'er the grave of day, 

It hangs a blood-red ball as at the dawn, 

It's size restored, but all its fervor gone. 

What meaneth this? And why should I recall, 
These sights and scenes familiar unto all? 

Lo, thus is Life. This round sun's daily plan, 
Is as the years that mark our earthly span. 
In childhood's hours the days are swift to fly; 
Too swift and soon, alas, they hurry by! 
Scarce we the brightness of the season find, 
It's hours are o'er — it's pleasures left behind. 
Vouth is upon us. Manhood's stronger grace 
Draws on and holds an undisputed place. 
The years fade slower. Manhood's golden prime, 
Seems for a while to lock the wheels of Time; 



192 POEM 

And long it lingers, slowly creeping to 
That sloping hillside where all life must go, 
But once begun the march of crowding years, 
Each one in turn the swifter disappears; 
Each one away in quicker pace doth steal, 
As lines run faster from an emptying reel. 

The warmth from morn increasing means the pulse 

That, growing, throbs to render high results; 

That turns the bending arc of life to go 

To those cold depths that open far below. 

Our strength increaseth till the crest it gains, 

And after that no upward step remains. 

The noon-day sun sends down its utmost power, 

And then its vigor fades with every hour. 

We sigh for life's maturity to find, 

Once fully grown, no growth remains behind. 

Old Age draws on, by loss of power distressed, 

Like yon dull globe that hovers in the West. 

And not alone its varying states declare 
The change of forces which our seasons bear; 
They hint the shape in which events are cast, 
As we behold them — Future, Present, Past. 

For what doth mean the monarch's changing size, 
Whereby his fashion seemeth to our eyes, 
From large to lesser form to sink and wane, 
And then resume his former bulk again? 
Lo, this. In childhood all things seen are great: 
Each object seems of wide and mighty state. 



POEM 193 

In youth by contact we their worth decry; 

We see them not with eyes that magnify. 

For things whose greatness we have counted much, 

Will sink and crumble at the actual touch. 

In Age, again, the things of past and gone, 

Look large and uncompared to gaze upon. 

And nothing in its dwindled life is there, 

As great as when its days were full and fair. 

Age looks on life as down a colonnade, 
Where stand the years in shouldered rows arrayed; 
From which sweet hints of buried time ascend, 
And things look largest at the farther end. 

O friends, I greet you here a beauteous band, 
Upon the confines of Life's golden land. 
For you, may Time his chariot's speed delay! 
Long and unclouded shine his central day! 
And when at last the sun finds its repose, 
As large as when for you at morn it rose, 
May these, your days of girlhood, look to you 
Clear and remembered for the joys they drew. 



^M^ 



k^ 



LULLABY 

Cradle Song 

Sleep, sleep, my baby! Lullaby! 
Sleep till the sun is in the sky! 
For the Savior's shielding arm, 
Shall defend thee from all harm, 
While the gloom of night is o'er thee, 
Lullaby ; Lullaby. 

Sleep, sleep, my baby! Lullaby! 
Sleep; for bright angels from on high, 
By thy cradle watch and stand, 
That sweet dreams from Fairyland, 
May be round my darling's pillow: 
Lullaby ; Lullaby. 

Sleep, sleep, my baby! Lullaby! 
Sleep; neither care nor harm is nigh: 
But, drawn down in soft repose, 
Let thine eyelids gently close, 
While I soothe thy slumber, singing 
Lullaby ; Lullaby. 



194 




A NEW BETHESDA* 



*The Hot Springs of Arkansas. The Indians from very early times 
evidently had a knowledge, though crude and imperfect, of the virtues 
of these waters. 



Dark hills that hold the secret flow 
Of rills that break and wimple down 
In curving channels, green and brown, 

To meet the stream that winds below; 

Whence is thy source of hidden might? 
What mystic powers in thee contend: 
To charge thy chemic floods, and send 

Their volume flashing into light? 

Unnumbered ages have yet stood, 
Mayhap and emptied ceaseless tides, 
Fire-likened, down thy rugged sides 

Girt by the silence of the wood; 

When denser grew the forest line, 
And over thee no sound was fixed, 
Save plashings of thy waters, mixed 

With sighings of the mountain pine. 



195 



196 A NEW BETHSEDA 

Unused thy open fountains lay, 
And wasted down their broken falls, 
Till stumbling o'er thy tufa walls, 

Wild hunters of an early day, 

Drank of thy streams and, startled, found 
A marvel springing at their feet; 
Clear streamlets seethed of hidden heat, 

That gushed and bubbled from the ground. 

And bringing here their stricken, these, 
Plain Nature's children, made the test 
What worth thy waters held to wrest 

The strength from sickness and disease; 

And so thy virtues came to be 

In ruder fashion famed and known, 
Till widening outward hast thou grown, 

To be the World's Infirmary; 

Where not alone the first that laves — 
As in the charmed pool of old 
When by the Angel stirred and rolled — 

Finds healing in its magic waves; 

But to the utmost of the race; 

In Earth's far numbering the last 
To seek thy favor, shall be cast 

The tokens of returning grace. 

So vast and ceaseless is thy flow. 

Thou markest well the gracious deed 
Of Him who fixed for human need 

So great a balm for strokes of woe; 



A NEW BETHSEDA 197 

Like as within our little length, 

He placed the stream that, who therein 
Doth wash, shall cast the shards of Sin, 

And rise from weakness unto strength. 

Flow down, full streams! that rush and leap 
As glad to do a kindly thing: 
To brighten here and there, and fling 

A solace when the forces sleep. 

Flow on forevermore! to be 

The ease and rout of hopeless pain, 
That myriad souls may turn again, 

And bless the hand that ordered thee. 

Flow on! thy tides with healing filled! 

And ye, dark hills, that frowning seem 

To bid the sunlight cease to gleam 
Upon thy summits, many-rilled: 
Live till thy craggy points are hurled 

And scattered, and thy boulders strewn, 

By shocks through which the signs are shown, 
That mark the closing of the world. 



TO EDGAR FAWCETT 

Upon reading his poem "The Village Poetess." 

For shame! that one in whom we find 
Some touches of poetic grace, 

Should seek to crush a fellow bard, 
Who holds at best an humbler place! 

Was it from envy of the praise 

That greets her in her local scenes? 

Or was it for the scanty pence 
They pay you in the magazines? 

If this; the greater shame. I hold 
No deed that meets the light of day, 

Is meaner than the act of him 

Who soils his neighbor's fame for pay. 

Of all men should the Poet be 
A man of sympathies: endowed 

With mildness for that tender class 
Who live above the general crowd. 

What need is there that he who climbs 
To grasp th' alluring crown of bays, 

Should win in favor as he goes 

By flinging words of sharp dispraise? 



198 



TO EDGAR FAWCETT 199 

The field of lyric thought is wide, 
And countless themes within it lurk. 

No need to tear a toiler down, 
To find a place in which to work ! 

Each one but finds such scale of flight 

As halting Fancy lifts him to. 
All men have not an equal height; 

Why scoff at those who stand below? 

So let the onslaught fade away, 

In whose conceit your kindness errs. 

You write your ringing rhymes, and let 
The Village Poetess write hers! 




THE STORMING OF THE FORT 



Poem read at the celebration of the ninety-ninth anniversary of the 
Battle of Groton Heights, Groton, Connecticut, September 6, 1880. 



Not shaken by the touch of Time 
Are deeds that martial heroes do; 

But, standing fair and firm, they rise 
Far sighted to the view. 

As when the foaming ocean's swell 
Moves on below some towered steep, 

Long time the eye looks back to catch 
Some crag across the deep: 

So from the haze of buried years, 
By flying Time made hoar and gray, 

Here backward turns the mind, to rest 
Upon this place and day: 

Where near a hundred years agone 
The clang of battling arms rang out ; 

When far was heard the musket's crack, 
And far the sounding shout: 



200 



THE STORMING OF THE FORT 201 

Where Freedom, grappling with her foes, 
Wrapped in the battle's murky cloud, 

Saw many a gallant soldier lie 
With bloody earth for shroud: 

And where — O God that such should be! 

O deed to be for aye abhorred! — 
She saw the maimed and captives made 

The victims of the sword. 

Had Heaven no ready bolt to hurl, 
That she no sweeping vengeance gave, 

When murdered Ledyard lifeless fell 
To fill a soldier's grave? 

But peace! Why sing the song of woe? 

Let soothing Nature be our guide. 
She weaves her carpets grassy-green, 

Where surged the battle tide. 

The gaping wounds that rent her sides 
Where roared the fierce artillery, 

Lie closed, and healed, and hid below 
The wealth of leaf and tree. 

Yea, rather let us turn to praise 

The end that came through blood and tears, 
As rose a home for liberty 

Made great in after years. 



202 THE STORMING OF THE FORT 

Far better is it that we seek 
The light that gilds the passing day, 

Than dwell in shadows of the clouds 
That darken far away. 

Look down O spirits in the vast, — 

Ye souls that from these ramparts flew — 

Look down upon us while we reap, 
The fruits your valor drew ! 

Look! See a Nation rescued by 
The lives ye halted not to give; 

And smiling hear us as we say 
Ye died that it might live! 

And not until eternal night 

Folds down upon the drooping globe, 

Forgotten be the deeds thct gave 
Them Honor's gloried robe. 

But as the centuries roll away 

Let rising throngs, with ^lee and sport, 
Recall their strength and prowess at 

The Storming of the Fort. 



4V 



M. V. C. 

Died December 17, 1880. 

( weep for the maid with the pale, cold, face, 

And her palms together pressed ; 
Enrobed for her last abiding place; 

For her sleep of endless rest ! 
And her marble cheek is as fair as the rose 

That at her throat there lies: 
And Death's unlovely presence shows 

Nowhere but in her eyes. 

Not the placid face, nor the shining hair, 

But the vacant gaze alone; 
And naught is left of the life that was there, 

Save the place where the brightness shone. 
For the light has gone from her soft blue eye, 

Where the soul was shining through ; 
As a star fades out of a summer sky, 

And only leaves the blue. 

O Earth, in time bring forth the rose; 

Bring bud and blossom rare, 
To where she lies in soft repose, 

For she was passing fair! 
Bring daisies and the violet's eyes, 

Where swells the grassy sod : 
As calm in settled peace she lies, 

While her soul has gone to God! 



203 




AFTER THE BALL 

Darkness where the lamplights glittered ; 

Lulled the sound of harp and horn: 
Ceased the feast, the guests departed, 

In the rising light of morn. 

Gone the eyes that lit and softened, 
In the dance's languid swell; 

Hushed the rush of light feet, whirling 
As the music rose and fell. 

Scattered in supreme disorder. 

Seem all things in court and hall, 
In the yellow sunlight falling 

On the ball-room's tinted wall. 

Here is but a broken spangle, 
There a tattered shred of lace; 

Or a crumpled rose-leaf, matching 
Close the blush-tints of some face. 

All that now remains suggesting 

Scenes that wakened thoughts of love, 

Is a tinselled bit of ribbon, 
Or mayhap my lady's glove. 



204 



AFTER THE BALL 205 

These I clasp and fondly treasure, 

For their glories passed away, 
Toying with them at my hearthstone — 

By its ashes cold and gray. 

So methinks when fails the taper, 
When the leaf is crisp and brown; 

When for us the dance is ended, 
And the silence draweth down; 

It shall find our loved ones sitting 

In their ashes, cold and drear, 
Toying with the trinkets left them, 

Kissing them for they are dear. 

Dear because of us who wore them, 

Dear as telling tales of love ; 
Yea, the glory of a lifetime, 

Centered in some rumpled glove. 

Hinting of the timid glances, 

Of the spoken word divine, 
In the faded days of glory, 

When that hand lay closed in thine. 

Keep them ! Guard them closely ever ! 

Let the burden that life brings, 
Be relieved by every bauble! 

Joy is born from little things. 




DEDICATION, 
To First Volume of Poems 

Look down from off thy shining height, 

O dwellers in the shadow-land! 
Look from thy universe of light; 

And if that spirits understand 
What comes to those they leave behind ,- 
The strife of soul, the toil of mind,~~ 

Receive a tribute to thy worth, 
O parents of my earthly race! 

Ye loved, to whom I owe by birth, 
And what of Art my hand can trace. 

To ye, with tears, I dedicate 

These lays. But all inadequate 
This simple strain of mine to sing 

What tender care and love ye eave; 
How constant ye my mind did bring 

My charge to keep, my soul to save. 
Oh, how can living man repay 

The love of parents passed away? 



206 




EPITHALAMIUM 

Bride, bride, at thy side 

Ever joys of Love abide; 

Thine, thine, ever shine, 

All the good the years combine. 
Sweet, sweet, blossoms meet, 
Where the path may lead thy feet; 
Thee the sunlight ever greet; 

Sings this heart of mine. 

Blow, blow, soft and low, 

Gentle gales that o'er them go; 

Fair, fair, balmy air, 

Forth their shallop smoothly bear. 
May, may, Time delay 
Long, to steal thy strength away; 
And blessings, thickly mingled, stay 

With ye; married pair. 



207 



KAIRON GNOTHI 



"KNOW THINE OPPORTUNITY" 
(Pittacus of Mitylene; one of the seven sages; born about A. D. 650.) 



"Opportuntiy has hair in front; behind, she is bald. If you seize 
her by the forelock you may hold her; but if suffered to escape, not 
Jupiter himself can catch her again." 

L,atin Proverb. 



&OS&SO* 



I've learned of life a lesson that the great of old have 

taught. 
I've learned that name and favor by toil alone are bought. 
That it is not man's of sudden, by a swift directed blow, 
To achieve a great endeavor, but by patient toil and slow. 



11. 



Yet I've learned that there are moments in the restless 

tide of Time, 
That open to the seeker the path o'er which to climb 
To Triumph ; but like sunset, as it gilds the dying day, 
They linger but a moment, then forever fade away. 



208 



KAIRON GNOTHI 209 

III. 

As I sit within my chamber now, to ponder on the 

morrow, 
This lesson flits before me, like a mocking ghost of sorrow. 
It banishes my pleasant dreams, my power to smile 

benumbing, 
As it asks, in taunting whispers, "Has it come, or is it 

coming ?" 

IV. 

Has it come, or is it coming ? 'Tis a solemn thing to think 
That mischance has seized upon us as we stood at For- 
tune's brink; 
That the future spread before us may ne'er again restore 
What the past has offered to us ; but we lost it evermore. 

v. 

Has the time forever vanished when I might have won 

esteem, 
And gathered for my memory the light of glory's beam, — 
When my name would long be treasured for the deeds 

that I had done? 
Has that time gone — forever gone — or is it yet to come? 

VI. 

The world that spreads around me has much of sadness 

now. 
There are clouds upon my pathway, there are wrinkles 

on my brow. 



210 KAIRON GNOTHI 

I might have made them brighter, had I only different 

done. 
But I'm not the lone example that this truth has 

dawned upon. 



VII. 



There are hearts we might have softened, that have 

steeled against us grown; 
There are joys we might have tasted, but whose absence 

we bemoan. 
Time was when we could pluck them, and yet we did 

refrain. 
Has that time gone — forever gone — or will it come again? 



VIII. 



Alas! through this world we wander, in a purblind 

manner quite, 
And we fail to seize those chances that are plainest to 

the sight. 
Thus we travel, ever onward, till the Reaper reaps us in, 
And the grave-clods falling on us cover — what we might 

have been. 




Oh, the long unequal fray; 

The weary strain of trust and prayer ; 
What wonder trembling hearts gave way 

And pale lips quivered in despair. 
— The Hundred Years 



THE HUNDRED YEARS 
1876 



Was I born too late for rhyme, 

Too late for song, or roundelay, 
To sing my Nation's worth, when Time 

Has rolled her hundred years away? 
These hundred years I come behind 

Have seen of song the garnered leaves, 
And I am left odd stalks to bind, 

Like her who gleaned among the sheaves. 



II. 



And though I turn to right, to left, 

To gather in the boundless field, 
A foot is stamped, a print is cleft, 

And other hands have reaped the yield. 
Yet let me tune my pigmy pipe 

To swell the notes of glad acclaim, 
That greet a land in glory ripe, 

And sounding to the trump of fame. 



211 



212 THE HUNDRED YEARS 

III. 

Born in clouds: of parents sprung 

With hearts as stout as oaken wood, 
Fair Hope around her cradle clung, 

And Faith and Freedom sponsors stood. 
And then her dread baptism comes; 

Not water drawn from earth-born rill, 
But muskets' flash and jarring drums, 

And blood and death on every hill! 

IV. 

Oh, the long unequal fray, — 

The weary strain of trust and prayer! 
What wonder trembling hearts gave way, 

And pale lips quivered with despair! 
O dawn of day! when will ye light 

To eyes that watched and never ceased? 
As they who lose their way at night 

Look long for light to gild the East. 

v. 

With Freedom's altar-fires in sight, 

Enkindled with the breath she drew, 
She vanquished ; and, a child of light, 

Uprose, and eagle-soaring flew. 
Ah, well if fires like that still blaze 

With fervor through the Nation's course! 
Ah, well if in these latter days, 

Doth Freedom keep her ancient force! 



THE HUNDRED YEARS 213 



VI. 



We who daily feel the breeze, 

The light of sun we love so well, 
Yet love them less than him who sees, 

Imprisoned, from a dungeon-cell. 
We, long enjoying Freedom's prime, 

Forget the good the ages bring. 
A hundred years is ample time 

To learn and to unlearn a thing. 

VII. 

But Progress here hath builded towers, 

And we have thrived, and grown, and filled. 
This restless Saxon blood of ours 

Was never made to slumber chilled. 
The East no longer from the West 

By plain, or lake, or hill divides; 
Through bands of steel they are compressed. 

And forth the Car of Triumph rides. 

VIII. 

Electric thought along the wires 

That lie beneath the sea is sent; 
The wilderness grows glittering spires, 

And nulled is earth's high battlement. 
The stream is bridged, the rock is squared; 

Great cities swelled, and towns have grown; 
And forests fled, and mines are bared. 

All these and else the age hath shown. 



214 THE HUNDRED YEARS 

IX. 

And what will other hundred years, 

Of time to come, in coming, bring? 
Bring they only Winter tears? 

Bring the tender flowers of Spring? 
Bring Advance, as we have seen, 

In fourfold measure weighted down: 
For we are on the brink, I ween, 

And they shall reap where we have sown. 



Shall we see the cunning brain 

Rule the air as earth and sea, 
Soothe the snow, or guide the rain, 

By some discovered subtlety? 
Shall we see the dumb to sing; 

The deaf to hear; the halt to go; 
Machines for doing everything, 

Except what mind and body do? 

XI. 

God wot! There is no backward slide 

From where we stand to dark degree; 
For knowledge ebbs not as the tide, 

Nor winged is, like wealth we see. 
But it vexes not my spirit sore. 

By that day we may never know; 
And generations, three or more, 

May press the ground we lie below. 



THE HUNDRED YEARS 215 

XII. 

When Xerxes saw the sun arise 

Above his many-millioned spears, 
He wept, with misty, swimming eyes, 

To think that in a hundred years, 
Not one of all that countless host, 

Of Persia's plains the flower and bloom, 
But what should render up the ghost, 

And silent lie within the tomb. 

XIII. 

But — cursed thought~~the sweep of trade 

May grudge the room we occupy, 
And deft Invention quit the spade 

To char our bones: nor let them lie. 
God grant to me, when ends my race, 

In kindly earth where I was born, 
To wrap me in sufficient space 

To wait the resurrection morn! 

XIV. 

And be that morn in hundred years, 

Or hundred ages yet to come, 
Deep-freighted with the hopes and fears 

Of pulsing hearts that now are dumb; 
The eye of Faith sees, clear as sight, 

Forth reaching to that shadowy land, 
The crowns of light, the robes of white, 

That round the throne of Mercy stand. 




THE WRANGLER* 



This morn there passed my window by, 
A form of man of bearing high, 
With head erect to view the sky, 
And mind that flashed in face and eye. 

His hair was smooth, and white his face; 
And culture lent him easy grace. 
He seemed as one that finds a place, 
Amid the ranks of finer race. 

He passed and in my mind there lay 
A hidden doubt, that found its way 
To sport in disputative play, 
And bathe in higher light of day. 

And thus the thought said unto me: 
'Lo, see the man! And can it be 
That he is kin of far degree 
To other types of men we see? 



•See note 4 at end. 

216 



THE WRANGLER 217 

"Are brothers these, the black, the red; 
The shallow skull, the arching head ; 
Who follow back one common thread, 
To one conjoint beginning led?" 

And I for answer, faint and slight: 
"I cannot set this matter right. 
But why disturb a sleeping light? 
Live on by faith, if not by sight . 

"I cannot sound the dark abyss 
That lies around man's primalness; 
I can but say, in things like this, 
I found my faith on Genesis." 

"Faith?" said it; "Faith? Oh, aye and aye! 
But should one's self be guided by 
The lead of vague beliefs, too high 
To meet the grasp of mind and eye?" 

And I returned: "Yes, doubter, yes! 
How many things we fondly press 
To trusting hearts, and never guess 
If truth be more or error less !" 

The wrangler made reply oblique: 
"The dove ne'er mated with the shrike. 
And ne'er didst thou on instance strike, 
But that the like produced the like. 



218 TH E WRANGLER 

"Since birth of Time, however late, 
The beasts that roam in savage state, 
Do each their own kind propagate, 
Nor with strange race amalgamate. 

"And though thou may'st, in instance, find 
Some crossing on from kind to kind, 
Yet are they to their sort confined, 
And not with different breeds combined. 

"Thou wilt not find upon the mead, 
Nor golden grain, nor worthless weed, 
But that, for earth's peculiar need, 
Gives down its own especial seed. 

"What wilt thou say of Man ? That he 
Escapes from these conditions free, 
And through man's wide diversity 
Holds distant consanguinity?" 

"Such thing," said I, "do men maintain. 
The Book makes not the matter plain. 
It only says that evil Cain, 
His forehead bearing murder's stain, 

"Did Eastwardly his journey trace: 
There found he an abiding-place. 
He had a wife and reared his race, 
As age and years drew on apace. 



THE WRANGLER 219 

"But if his partner he derived 
From 'Land of Nod,' or if he wived 
In that first home where once he thrived, 
No man to know hath yet contrived. 

"The first would give deduction fair 
That other stocks of men were there 
Than this recorded single pair, 
Whose type and style we claim to bear." 

"Deduction? Aye, thou well dost know, 
From what we see it must be so: 
For there are tribes of men who grow 
Of color black and forehead low. 

"And 'neath the wheeling Zodiac 
Thou ne'er hast seen the sight, good lack! 
In colors mixed such cunning knack, 
That white with white produced a black!" 

I: "Climate may have wrought the change, 
Conditions former states estrange. 
That substance should its shade exchange 
Is something neither rare nor strange." 

The doubter's answer came not slow: 
"When sawest thou from climate's glow. 
The swan the color of a crow; 
The raven clad in plumes of snow?" 



220 THE WRANGLER 

I said: ' 'Though vainly did I look 

To solve these things from out my Book, 

My faith the failure little shook. 

Such puny blows it well can brook." 

The wrangler then said unto me; 
"Thy Book is partial history. 
Who writes his genealogy, 
Doth trace but one especial tree. 

"What more dost thou expect of him, 
Who gave the world this outline dim? 
He wrote when hoary ages grim, 
Had set beneath the horizon's rim." 

I said: "What if I grant it thee 
The chart is made imperfectly. 
And gives no close chronology, 
To forge the links with nicety? 

"There is assurance clear that rings 
In later times, from other things, 
To stay the faith that in us clings, 
That man from one beginning springs. 

"And though the thing may seem to be 
The offspring of simplicity, 
Yet in my soul it pleaseth me, 
Like this to weave my theory. 



THE WRANGLER 221 

"When life, in great creation's plan, 
Th' ascending scale of Nature ran, 
It filled the sketch that God began, 
As found in time Silurian.* 

"And Man, the last in gift and worth, 
What time as man he gained his birth, 
Was placed in midst of part of earth, 
Redeemed from out the liquid dearth, 

"While other parts, as yet submerged, 
Had not from ice and frost emerged; 
For Man to height of Being surged, 
When the icy state to waning verged. 

"This, my belief, may go astray, 
And far from right; but who can say 
But round the frozen pole there stay 
Some lingerings of the glacial day? 

"As when some snowy winding-sheet 
Melts off before the sun's strong heat, 
On northern hillsides wilt thou meet 
With tufts, dissolved but incomplete. 

"When Summer into Autumn blends, 
We never know from change she sends, 
Without the aid our tablet lends, 
When one begins or other ends. 

*See note 5 at end. 



222 THE WRANGLER 

"And so this epoch would have slid 
Serenely on and sunk amid 
The graves where long its sires had hid, 
But men such gross transgressing did. 

"To cleanse the canker of their vice, 
God swelled the heat by wise device, 
And sunk the mountains in a trice, 
With meltings of the world of ice. 

"But first, as an especial mark 
Of favor to the patriarch, 
Bade righteous Noah build an ark, 
And with his kith and kin embark, 

"With stocks that did in earth abound. 
All other living things were drowned, 
And far as sight of eye could bound, 
There was no view of solid ground 

"Till, when the waters long had raged, 
A wind blew up, the flood assuaged; 
And they, from floating home uncaged, 
In husbandry once more engaged. 

"Why need I recapitulate 
Of Noah's wine-besotted state, 
Save for the curse that did await 
On Ham, for act indelicate? 



THE WRANGLER 223 

"For Noah, rising wrathfully, 
When knew he his indignity, 
Thus deeply cursed his progeny: 
'A slave of servants shalt thou be!' 

"And since that day Ham's offspring rude, 
Through fortune's strange vicissitude, 
In divers climes and latitude, 
Have groaned in villein servitude." 

I wakened all his wily craft, 
And loud and long the scoffer laughed ; 
Like one with veins afire with draught 
Of heating wines, from beaker quaffed. 

"Thy reasoning is worse than slack! 
Thou leavest a point and comest back, 
Like coursers on a racing-track. 
These men were white ! Whence comes the black ? 

"And wilt thou say this man obscure, 
Did exercise a power so sure, 
That cursing son for deed impure 
Did make that son a blackamoor? 

"Much dost thou know how stands the case, 
Of whether, from thy molten glace, 
This flood did smother all the race, 
Or only in restricted space. 



224 THE WRANGLER 

"Thou sayest that the wide belief 
In different tribes of some such grief, 
From which a few obtain relief, 
Is evidence, nor slight nor brief. 

"I say that if this fluid wrath 
Embraced all nations in its path, 
What lore each separate species hath, 
Is knowledge of an automath. 

"And since thy book doth plainly fall 
Below the point of telling all, 
Canst thou its story truthful call? 
Is false in part not false in all? 

"Wilt thou believe when it is said 
That man by God's own hand was made, 
When Science, with dissecting blade, 
Hath late the method all displayed, 

"And seen how, through the link of apes, 
His perfect form at last escapes 
Across the gulf that widely gapes 
Between the man and lowest shapes?" 

I said: "I am not wholly bound 
To think that God scooped from the ground 
A lump of clay, and rolled it round. 
Such is not in the Scripture found. 



THE WRANGLER 225 

"He may have made a germ of clay, 
Which as a germ for ages lay; 
For in each one creative Day., 
'Tis sure that cycles rolled away. 

"And who will dwarf the power of God, 
To say that He, who with a nod 
Could make the man, whole ages trod 
In working on a senseless clod? 

"'Tis not forbid that this is true: 
He made a germ which lapped and grew 
Till ready in conditions new, 
For work that He would have it do; 

"And then He fitted it with mind, 
To guide that state of novel kind, 
Which, come to knowledge, it did find 
Above the ones it left behind. 

"For in my Scripture is it told 
That after He had made the mould, 
He breath into its nostrils rolled, 
And Man became thence living-souled. 

"And does the thought arouse thy mirth? 
Behold the child, before its birth, 
With eyes and organs made for earth, 
But, as it lieth, nothing worth. 



226 THE WRANGLER 

"But ushered to the light of day, 
The vital air begins its sway 
Upon the ready lungs, that lay 
Unconscious of their power to play. 

"Then, since there may be life sustained 
Before the point where breath is gained, 
Why may not Man have life obtained 
Before a mind within him reigned? 

"But whether 'twas that Earth was manned, 
The product of one lone command, 
Turned glowing from the Maker's hand, 
And made full-strengthed and fleshed to stand, — 

"To stand perfected grown and firm, — 
Or whether first He made the germ, 
Which lapped and grew through lengthened term, 
Till last it took some form of worm, 

"Endowed with strength to stir and rise, 
As from their hulks the butterflies, 
Till bursting from its former ties, 
It basked beneath the brighter skies, 

"What time its all-forknowing Sire 
Did fill it with immortal fire, 
And bade it hold unquenched desire, 
To seek for Truth from high to higher, 



THE WRANGLER 227 

"It matters not. And what care I? 
In either case none can deny 
He made the man; and this reply 
Demolishes thy sophistry. 

"Thou canst not fright with idle fears 
That the body's tenant disappears. 
To faith in life the soul adheres 
Serenely through the waste of years." 



MOUNT HOLLY 

Sigh, sigh, O low-complaining pine! 

Thy grief finds answer in my laden breast, 
Thou fitting warder to these dead of mine, 

Who here beneath thy deepest rootlet rest. 

Wave thy broad arms and lift thy pennants tall, 
As mocking age and death in depth of strength! 

Thou, too, as sprung from seed of time, wert small, 
And lapped thy vigor on from length to length. 

Thou boastest leaves of splinter, ever green; 

The hoary-flngered ages touch thee mild. 
There will not be, in endless cycles, seen, 

The full-grown man that was not first a child. 

No thing exempt from long, slow growth is found, 
From something here to something farther on. 

The seed, matured, that hideth in the ground, 
Becomes the base to build the stalk upon. 

Thou creepest on the same though seasons change; 

Thy strength doth swell and doth not waste away. 
The volume that thou gatheredst in thy range 

Through yesterlight, becomes thy hoard to-day. 



MOUNT HOLLY 229 

Yea! like shall these that sleep beneath thy feet; 

Up from the point that here they reached they rise. 
What gains their strength availed them to complete 

Shall prove their stepping-stones in Paradise. 

The Old Year dies in deep mid-winter's rime: 
In Winter's rime the New Year draws its breath. 

The New Year launches in the fields of time, 

Out from the point reached at the the Old Year's death. 

All gifts of grace and meekness; sense and powers; 

The wealth of mind from long pursuing caught: 
These are the buds that open into flowers, 

Full-ripened in that universe of thought. 

Sigh, sigh, O low-complaining pine! 

I take thy lowly murmurings to my breast. 
Right well thou hintest that these dead shall shine, 

Although their structures here below thee rest. 



£ 



SIN NO MORE 



They brought her, found in evil deed, 
And bade her by the Master stand. 

He gave their scoffings little heed, 

But stooped and wrote upon the sand. 

He wrote: nor listened to the jeers, 

That came from those who gathered round; 

For sin against repentant tears, 

With Him weighs light as thistle-down. 

As what He traced upon the ground, 
Would winds and rain obliterate, 

So should they, when a fault was found, 
Not petrify: let time abate. 

And who should in her judgment stand? 

Or who condemn her failing? None 
But him who, with a spotless hand, 

Should first against her cast a stone! 

And they, amazed to find rebuke, 

Where men would yield so ripe assent, 

Went forth abashed in word and look, 
But sowed the scandal as they went. 

230 



SIN NO MORE 231 

Aye, revelled in the infamy; 

For such delight a scandal gives, 
Where hundred virtues fail and die 

Unknown, a single error lives. 

O Calumny, thou clinging burr 

To catch the skirts of all who pass, 
And dim their lustre, like the blur 

That breath puts on the pane of glass! 

Thou waitest not the proven case, 

But seizest on the lightest thing; 
With wink, and nudge, and wry grimace, 

Thou dost abroad thy venom fling. 

Though closed in steel the victim waits, 

Thou yet some evil way dost find, 
To pass beyond his armor-plates, 

And leave thy rankling sting behind. 

These had of proof no lack nor stint; 

And yet He passed the evil by. 
Thou needst but the slightest hint 

To make thy poisoned arrows fly. 

How better were the Christly way, 
To blunt the ear when whispers pour; 

And where the wrong confessed, to say, 
O sinner, go, but sin no more! 




A REVEL 

Recollections of the Memphis Mardi-Gras of 1881 

Fair city by the river side, 

That justly looketh down with pride, 

At thy quick growth through lesser phase 

Of life, till, in these riper days, 

Thy many years of strength have made 

Thy boundaries wide and deeply laid ; 

I turn a pleasing glance to see 

Once more thy wild festivity, 

That comes with noise and merry din, 

Ere days of prayer and fast begin, 

And the Lenten season enters in. 

A look, a touch, and lo, there springs 
A portal wide; and Memory flings 
In mingled richness to my gaze, 
The doings of those bustling days. 
And in the shifting scene abounds, 
A revelry of sights and sounds. 



A REVEL 233 

Crowds, crowds ; dense masses that throng the busy street, 
And ceaselessly the flagstones click to the tramp of feet; 
A moving human ocean pours like a surging tide, 
As fierce and strong in its motion as yon river dark and 

wide: 
As wild and uncontrolled as the torrent, that whirls and 

roars. 
Through the open gaps of the levee when the vernal 

freshet pours. 
No faces alike, but resembling — alike in the common 

guise, 
That stamps Man made of the Maker, from the splendid 

light of the eyes. 
Each with a history; each one an effect; a link in the 

chain. 
Reaching so far in the vast that we seek its commence- 
ment in vain, 
Yet each one a cause in his way, propelling a thousand 

designs, 
That shall leap into life and effect as year by year declines. 
And I think: How small a man is; for matched with the 

men that be, 
This vast assemblage is only like a grain to the sands of 

the sea. 
Ah, that is loneliness ! Standing by the edge of a moving 

throng. 
And watching the numberless figures that rush and push 

along : 
But finding no visage familiar, that can feel and under- 



234 A REVEL 

No kindly word of greeting, or ready clasp of the hand. 

stand — 
And great is the burst of gladness, born of a sudden 

delight, 
When a well-known face or figure draws suddenly into 

sight. 
Little cared for at home — no matter! Here at least can 

we meet, 
And a bond of union is knit in the passing events of the 

street. 



Faces coming and going — faces everywhere, 

Filled with the flush of gladness, or touched with the 

frosts of care: 
Filled with the tender warmth of maidenly innocence, 
Or the earthly expression gathered from the sway of the 

world of sense. 
And oftener was to be met — oftener than otherwhere — 
That loveliness refined by Beauty's divinest air. 
Eyes of a lustrous softness, cheeks of the rose and pearl, 
Till the brain entranced with gazing, goes round in a 

giddy whirl. 
And they know — and none know better — the definite 

value and stress, 
That the slow, cold world attaches to the delicate art of 

dress ; 
So they go arrayed in a splendor that rivals the very sun. 
And the tints of the rose, and the field flower, and the 

Orient are outdone. 



A REVEL 235 

So the day was filled with beauty and many a seemly 
sight, 

But its splendor paled and faded in the luminous scenes 

of the night, 
When the somber robes of evening drew down o'er the 

waiting round, 
And the clustered stars of the ether slid out of the dark 

profound. 
For the light of a thousand tapers leapt up with a 

blinding flare, 
As the long procession wended down the surging 

thoroughfare ; 
With its fairy scenes: with its gemlike gleams: with its 

shimmer of burnished gold, 
As the eye was held enchanted with the mythical scenes 

of old: 
Till there on that peak by the harbor, and the measured 

swish of the wave, 
With march and countermarching the weird assembly 

drave : 
And the night beheld new splendors from the veil of the 

darkness come, 
In the trailing flash of the rocket, and the scattered lights 

of the bomb; 
In the car of fire; and the serpents, that writhed and 

turned again, 
As the blue of the heavens lighted with a shower of 

fiery rain. 



236 A REVEL 

But the theme in noble grandeur to a loftier pinnacle 

rose, 
And the festival's crowning glory was yet reserved for 

the close; 
In that Temple of Art — with its flowers and lights — 

with its beauty and grace, 
That shone like a spirit Elysian had entered and rilled 

the place, 
With beauteous forms and faces, with apparel gay and 

bright, 
And the quivering flash of jewels that gleamed in the 

blinding light, 
And the screen drew up upon glimpses of a scene of such 

radiant hue, 
That the eye turned away in its vision, o'erwhelmed with 

the dazzling view. 
And the mind from the giddy splendor drew back and 

sought surcease, 
When the zealous players rested in a shower of golden 

fleece. 

Then music pealed. The mime ended. Like waking 

from a trance, 
The merry maskers scattered, and wound in the bustling 

dance ; 
Where the graceful sweeps of the dancers held sway on 

the marbled floor, 
Till the yellow light of sunrise stole in at the palace door. 



A REVEL 237 

Nor the least to me of enjoyment was that misty 

Sabbath day, 
When I heard that Heavenly music roll up and die 

away, 
Through the grand cathedral arches, the pillars, and 

carven rails, 
Like the voice of the human crying for the grace that 

never fails: 
Or that other, the gentler and softer, but sad as the 

moaning sea — 
As the wind in the vacant pine-grove, that sigheth 

wearily — 
When I heard those blossoms of girlhood, in silver 

sounds rehearse, 
The songs of the Nation's Poet, and the gems of his 

tuneful verse: 
Nor the last unto me, nor the lesser, when I felt my 

heart rejoice, 
In the thrill of that greatest trophy, the gift of a glorious 

voice, 
As the clear full notes of the tenor, with the spirit of 

melody strong, 
Rang out in the tender ballads of the modern Masters 

of Song. 

Small cause is this for rapture? That it may be so I 

grant. 
Yet I thank the kind Heaven that made me for the grace 

that did implant 



238 A REVEL 

In my bosom the gift of enjoyment from the smallest 

things of earth. 
The joys and delights of existence have often an humble 

birth. 
I envy not that dweller by the loud sea's sounding shore, 
Who hears in its ceaseless lashings but a dull monotonous 

roar ; 
All its glories palled upon him, all its beauties cast away, 
And its sad song sung to a spirit as deaf and dead as the 

clay. 
I had rather be him whose fortune deprives him at times 

of the sight, 
That his soul may glow and his spirit flow, in the sudden 

restored delight. 

So I look with pleasure, O city, at thy show and merry 

din, 
That comes e'er the prayerful season of abstinence 

enters in. 
May the years that rise in the future pour out their fullest 

store 
Of blessings upon thy fortune; thy growth be more and 

more! 
And many the seasons coming may thy joyful children 

bask, 
In the gorgeous sights of the pageant, the licensed delights 

of the mask. 



March, 1881. 



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ABENDLIED 
An Evening Song. 

Below the landscape's misty rim, 
The Summer sun had passed away. 

And o'er the hazy land there fell, 
The light of fading day. 

The air of twilight, floweret-fed, 

With sense of silence hung o'ercome; 

Save here and there some maple bore, 
The locust's jarring hum. 

And one by one the village lights, 

Flashed through the gloom of gathering night 
An done by one the lamps came out, 

With ruddy floods of light. 

And one by one, in many a home, 

Were groups of happy children drawn, 

Who paused in laugh and play to list 
For footfalls on the lawn. 



239 



240 ABENDLIED 

Nor these alone, but many a dame, 
Proud of her matron's tasks revealed, 

Made bright the room with deftest art, 
A welcome home to yield. 

And there within an humble thatch, 
Ere yet the waited greeting rang, 

The while her infant softly slept, 
A happy mother sang: 

Sleep, sleep, my baby; Lullaby! 
Sleep till the sun is in the sky. 
For the Savior's shielding arm, 
Shall defend thee from all harm, 
While the gloom of night is o'er thee, 
Lullaby! Lullaby! 

Sleep, sleep, my baby; Lullaby! 
Sleep; for bright angels, from on high, 
By thy cradle watch and stand, 
That siveet dreams of Fairyland, 
May be round my darling's pilloiv; 
Lullaby! Lullaby! 

Oh, sweet the peace within that home, 
And rich the moments were with grace, 

As two above the cradle bent, 
And scanned the baby-face; 

And saw the faintly-playing smile, 
Light up and quickly pass away; 

Like sungleams from an upper sky, 
That flush the face of day. 



ABENDLIED 241 

Oh, filled the season was with grace, 
A draught drawn from contentment deep, 

As by the cradle side they sat, 
And watched the babe asleep; 

As by the cradle side they sat, 

While unseen blessings o'er them hang; 

And softly while her infant slept, 
The happy mother sang: 

Sleep, sleep, my baby; Lullaby! 
Sleep; neither care nor harm is nigh! 
But drawn down in soft repose, 
Let thine eyelids gently close, 
While I soothe thy slumber singing; 
Lullaby! Lullaby! 



£<»£€» £*» 



DIE WACHT AM RHEIN 

Translation of the German National Song by Carl Wilhelm 

There comes a cry like thunder's sound, 
Like clash of swords and billows' bound; 
To the Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine! 
Who will defend her border line? 

CHORUS. 

Rest safe, dear Fatherland of mine; 
Firm stands the watch upon the Rhine! 

Through hundred thousands comes the thrill, 
And eyes w r ith lightning flashes fill. 
The German, upright, pure and strong, 
Protects her sacred side from wrong. 

CHORUS. 

Rest safe, dear Fatherland of mine; 
Firm stands the watch upon the Rhine! 

He looked above to Heaven's expanse, 
Whence sires heroic downward glance; 
He swore, and, proud, to combat pressed; 
Thou, Rhine, stayest German as my breast! 



242 



DIE WACHT AM RHEIN 243 



CHORUS. 



Rest safe, dear Fatherland of mine; 
Firm stands the watch upon the Rhine! 



While yet one drop of blood still flows, . 
Or grasp upon the sword can close; 
While wields the rifle yet one hand, 
No foe shall step upon this strand! 

CHORUS. 

Rest safe, dear Fatherland of mine; 
Firm stands the watch upon the Rhine! 

The oath resounds ; the billows rise ; 

The banners flutter to the skies: 

To the Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine! 

We all will guard her border line! 

CHORUS. 

Rest safe, dear Fatherland of mine; 
Firm stands the watch upon the Rhine! 



INANES 

Pallid lay her lifeless lord. 

She but shrank and could not weep. 
Only loud her anguish poured, 

Broke in moanings sad and deep. 

Dry her heart as summer dust; 

Drooped her forehead bending low; 
Saying, "Break, O heart, thou must, 

If my tears refuse to flow!" 

She recalled his comely grace, 
Hid beneath the settled pall; 

But no tear-drop o'er her face, 
Swept it's sudden-surging fall. 

She remembered all his love, 
Shown in deeds of tender guise. 

Still no misty cloudlets move, 
In the measure of her eyes. 

Last in long-forgotten years, 

She some unjust words perceived. 

Rushing came her futile tears, 
As with storm her bosom heaved. 



244 



INANES 245 



Wildly rose her broken cry, 
Weeping sore and fitfully; 

'God forgive me! Oh, if I 

Could but hear him pardon me!" 

Late for unatoned things, 

When the chill of death is there! 
Late — too late! — No whisper brings 

Message from the realms of air. 

Vain her moanings rise and roll, 
Praying pardon for the ill. 

Lo, what answer hath her soul? 
Slept the dead man cold and still. 



AT ELBERON 

After so long a time! Merciful Father, 
Pity the land where the dead ruler lies! 

Vainly she utters her sorrows unceasing, 

Earthwardly bending her tear-burdened eyes. 

Dead in the prime of his manhood and luster; 

Dead at the crest of his worthy-won fame; 
Leaving enwreathed in the hearts of his people, 

Forever the light of an undying name. 

Grandly he wrought in the world's sturdy battle; 

Grandly he scaled Honor's dizziest height: 
Then, as an eagle would, Heavenward ascending, 

Passed into clouds and was lost to the sight. 

Breathless the Nation has watched o'er his pillow, 
Praying — Oh never was earnester made! 

Hoping — heart-weary — yet hoping unshaken 

Still, that the Death-angel's hand might be stayed. 

Through the long days of the fierce-flaming Summer, 
Far into Autumn time bravely strove he; 

Only to sink in the grasp of the Victor, 

There by the shores of the low-moaning sea. 



246 



AT ELBERON 247 

Ah, who can say what a sigh and a shudder, 
Ran through the uttermost bounds of the land, 

When the deep tones of the towers at midnight, 
Told the sad tale that the end was at hand? 

Who that can tell of the tears shed in secret: 
Quivering lips, or the down-bended head: 

As the faint light of the first rays of morning, 
Shone where the hope of the Nation lay dead ? 

Bury him, then, with the whole people weeping! 

Toll the slow bell in its mournfullest tone ! 
Weep with the widowed one, weep for the fatherless; 

Ours is a grief like a kinsman were gone! 

Muffle the drum, and with low-drooping banners, 
Bear home the soldier-chief gone to his rest! 

There let him sleep, the beloved of his country, 
Close by the wide-spreading plains of the West. 



September 20, 1881. 





THE SURFMAN 

Sharp flies the wild, unruly wind, 

From far-off prisons blowing free: 
As through the rudely-broken air, 
The cold sweeps down from his Northern lair, 
And sets his frozen signet there, 
Where roars the mighty sea. 

Full falls the deluge of the rain, 

And thick the mists of blinding spray: 

Though keen the stinging beads of sleet, 

On beach and hillside fiercely beat, 

Yet struggling with retarded feet, 
The surfman holds his way. 

And what though darkness rule the time, 

And star and sphere be void of light? 
Still onward thrusting through the dark, 
— Yon lantern but a dangling spark — 
The sea's patrol, he moves to mark 
The chances of the night. 

To watch and guard lest in that hour, 

Some hapless bark, through fury hot, 
Be ground upon the rocks below, 



248 



THE SURFMAN 249 

And none be nigh at hand to go 
With means of ready help, or throw 
The forward-plunging shot; 

Or leap amid the foam and man 

The cock-boat craft, a tossing speck, 

And snatch the helpless from the grave, 

Ere yet the raging of the wave, 

Beats out the life they seek to save, 
And strews the shore with wreck. 

In calm yon Ocean seems to hold 
The smoothness of a blessed sleep; 

But where is fury that can vie 

With its wild wrath, as upward fly 

Its sullen waters, mountain high, 
When storms break o'er the deep? 

O Surfman, bold art thou and strong; 

And more than strong thy oaken heart! 
God's richest blessings on thee rain, 
For deeds thou doest not in vain; 
For all the danger and the pain, 

Thou takest as thy part! 

God's blessing in the name of those, 

Whose present breath to thee they owe ! 
It is more noble thus to keep 
One life from lapsing in the deep, 
Than if, as conqueror, thou should'st sweep 
A land with sword and woe. 




The subject of this sketch is a well-known village of Arkansas, now 
entirely deserted. It is said that upon one occasion during a session 
of the Legislature in early times, this village came within one vote of 
being designated as the State Capital. 



ICHABOD 

Calm sleeps the valley by the river, 
Where groves of oak and aspen shiver. 
And trailing onward far below, 
The water windeth, brown and slow. 

And far the waste-land outward pushes, 
Thick sown with feathered sedge and bushes. 
Rank vines drawn upward clasp and seize 
The blackened trunks of giant trees. 

And here mid fields devoid of tillage, 
Stands grouped the remnant of a village, 
Where Commerce once, with busy mien, 
And bustling pride of life, was seen. 

Yon moss-grown building, long forsaken, 
Hath in its time been rudely shaken, 
When came the trader with his bales, 
With barter, and the din of sales. 



250 




Calm sleeps the valley by the river, 
Where groves of oak and aspen shiver; 
And trailing onward, far below, 
The water windeth, brown and slow. 

— ICHABOD 



ICHABOD 251 

Yon vacant roadway, leading by it, 
That lies in rarely-broken quiet, 
Once saw the time when o'er its breast, 
The tide of travel hourly pressed. 

No friendly hail of passer calling; 
No voice of song or music falling; 
But on the place there lingereth, 
The presence of a living death. 

Yet this dead spot, so runs the story, 
Once stood this near a higher glory; 
That in grave legislative hall 
One only voice she lacked to call 

Her forward, in her bold ambition, 
To hold the Capital position ; 
When statecraft, simple and sedate, 
Had marked the boundaries of the State. 

One only voice she lacked to enter 
Time's annals as a new land's center, 
And thence to broaden and to grow, 
To what proportions, who may know? 

Ah, thus the good approacheth nigh us, 
And thus the world's chief valued treasures 
Slide past us, waiting eager there; 
And fortune builds her otherwhere. 

Ah, thus our lives stand close to pleasures 
But coldly turning passeth by us. 
While other wears the gloried wreath, 
We pine in silence underneath. 




LONGFELLOW 

Clear voice whose lightest-spoken tone 
Was wont to thrill from sea to sea, 
With sense of rarest Poesy, 

And music all thine own; 

Thine was the gift to melt the soul, 
With touches of enraptured fire, 
As from thy never-failing lyre, 

We felt thy fervor roll. 

Thine was the more than royal gem, 
To bind the world with dulcet chains; 
For myriad tongues shall chant the strains, 

Thou gavest unto them. 

And myriads more, in time unthought, 
Shall teach the children at the knee, 
The blessed memory of thee, 

And what thy verse hath wrought. 

And thou shall sit, with welcome long, 
Beside the fire, at hearth and hall ; 
And dear thy name be held for all 

The sweetness of thy song. 



252 



LONGFELLOW 253 

And as the seasons onward move, 
What wounded hearts to thee will turn, 
And from thy consolation earn, 

The precious calm of love! 

And where the maid but who will find 
In thee the source of trust and truth; 
The hoary sire find peace; and youth 

Ambition fire his mind? 

So much thou wert! We knew thee well, 
Thou son of Song! Alas, that now 
Cold lies the brain, and rests the brow, 

And hand that wove the spell! 

No more for us the grand old head, 
The kindly eye, the locks of gray. 
To-day we hear the Nation say, 

Her Laureate Son is dead. 

Hang wreaths of yew about the tomb, 
Cease din of turmoil, harsh and sharp; 
A hush lies on our noblest harp, 

Our sweetest tongue is dumb! 

Yet only dumb as men are brought 
In things of sense. Thy soul shall reach 
Unto the utmost life of each, 

And move us with thy thought. 



254 LONGFELLOW 

Thou more than kingly rank dost take, 
For kings are such by acts of men; 
But he who wields the Poet's pen 

Is of Diviner make. 

And long when kings have passed and gone, 
In mists of half-forgotten fame, 
Thy star shall hold its force the same, 

With grander shining on. 



March 25, 1882. 



THE NORTHERN MOLOCH 



Grim wastes of never-fading snow, 
Where, flashing into rose and white, 
Thy weird and ghostly-woven light, 

Streams down upon the world below; 

Once more thy barren tracts have found 
The bold explorer* backward sent, 
And all his prowess idly spent, 

In thy stern waters, glacier-bound: 

Once more his staunchest craft and crew, 
Held locked, as in a monster vise, 
By mountains of eternal ice, 

That brighten into green and blue; 

Have seen him, baffled in the strife, 
Turn back his hopeless band, and there 
Go down and meanly perish, where 

Death reigns from very lack of life; 



*Capt. G. W. DeLong, in command of the Jeanette 
exploring party. 



255 



256 THE NORTHERN MOLOCH 

Have shown that hearts with courage bold, 
May not with thee and thine compete; 
Nor hardy valor serve to meet, 

The piercing keenness of the cold. 

And we who witnessed with a sigh 
The gallant crew imperilled go, 
Weep long for those who lie below, 

The stillness of the Arctic sky; 

Where giant crags confused stand, 
And lofty rear the flinted peaks, 
Or, slid along the margin, breaks 

The wave that wanders to the land. 

Ah, why should Man thus vainly own 
The wild desire to wrest from thee 
The secret of thine open sea — 

Thou Moloch of the Frozen Zone! 

What profits it if once he knew, 
And read it like an open book? 
Who ventures in thy face to look, 

Sees Death and Ruin leap to view! 

And what were all the glory worth 
To be the first to enter there? 
What service were the deadly air? 

And what the vantage to the earth? 



THE NORTHERN MOLOCH 

Keep thou my secret, Polar Zone — 
That secret that has cost so dear! 
No more for thee the orphan's tear 

Be shed: nor break the widow's moan. 

Yea, rather, let thy riddle stay 
Unsolved in sweeps of pack and flow; 
Or where thy icebergs whirling go 

The mazes of their ocean way. 

Oh, nevermore may ship or band, 
Into thy fatal clime be sent! 
Oh, nevermore be treasure lent, 

To pierce thy evil-teeming land! 

Oh, never boat be swept away, 
Or plunged beneath thy numbing wave ! 
Unbroken be thy cairn or cave, 

The whiteness of thy hateful day! 

But yet we turn with reverence strong, 
And honor, for their force and power, 
Thy sturdy sea-worth, Danenhower, 

Thy trustful courage, brave De Long! 

And hope, till Hope begins to fail, 
That they,* whom Ocean's fury drove 
Apart from thee, have lived above 

The wrath of that September gale. 



257 



*I y ieutenant Chipp and party. 



258 THE NORTHERN MOLOCH 

Or else if Death drew down, that he, 
By Mercy moved, was quick to strike, 
And brought a sudden end, unlike 

Thy long and hopeless agony. 

Vain were thy labors and thy worth — 
Thy worth that dared and drew the worst — 
Thy fate hath rendered thrice accurst, 

The circle of the icy North. 

Rest, sailor, by the Northern shore, 
Where rolls the Lena's outward sweep; 
And to thy soul, there lulled to sleep, 

Be calm and peace forevermore! 

Thy tomb, from mankind far withdrawn, 
Be marked by Nature's spear and spire; 
And lighted with the rayless fire, 

That glimmers in the Northern dawn. 



THE BOATING 

Of the Halcyon Club, May 30, 1882. 

We gathered where the shallops lay, 
With measured oars we sped away, 
A crowd of fifty, happy-hearted, 
Our faces to the dying day. 

And as we smoothly drew along, 
What mirth convulsed the joyous throng; 
From speech and glee, from troll and story, 
And merry voices rich with song! 

Nor could we tell what pleased us best — 
The wit, the tale, the lay, the jest, 
Or music of the harp and viol; 
Till shuddering in the darkened West, 

A light, that flashed a jagged chain, 
Leapt through the sky and paled again, 
With rolling tones of distant thunder, 
And lowering clouds, with drops of rain. 

259 



260 THE BOATING 

But then when these had haply fled, 
We up the rocky pathway sped, 
And, winding now by giant boulders, 
At last looked from the mountain head; 

Where closed about with Summer vine, 
We saw the distant prospect shine; 
While far below spread out the city; 
And high above us sighed the pine. 

Then came the feast, in hunger keen; 
And then the dance upon the green, 
Around the blazing bonfire lighted — 
And happier group was never seen. 

Then rose the moon. Her light was dim 
With flying clouds that blurred her rim, 
And made the landscape faint and misty, 
And all the forest pale and grim, 

And we returned. Again we stepped 
Along the stones, that gravely slept, 
Or thundered down a broken pathway, 
To where the lazy water crept. 

Again the laugh, the jest, the lay; 
The song that echoed far away, 
As down the tardy current drifting, 
We glided on in spirit gay; 



THE BOATING 261 

Till by the sleeping town we drave, 
Past lights that winked across the wave, 
And past the bridge above us bending, 
We drew to where the waters lave 

That sandy margin, terrace-laid, 
And in the high bank's denser shade, 
We rounded to the wherry landing, 
And ended there a scene that made 

A memory of a happy time, 
A glimpse from out a fairer clime — 
A voice of joy, a note of gladness, 
That well may ask the aid of rhyme. 



THE SECOND BURIAL OF PAYNE 

The body of John Howard Payne, author of "Home, Sweet Home," 
was brought from Tunis, Africa, and was reburied in Georgetown, Dis- 
trict of Columbia, June, 1883, through the liberality of W. W. Corcoran, 
Esq., of Washington. 

At last — the long-neglected one! 
At last the land that gave him birth, 
Enfolds him in her robe of earth, 

His Ocean-journey done. 

At last the senseless dust is drawn, 
Long-lain beneath Tunisan sands, 
From crypts in those far alien lands, 

That early meet the dawn. 

And here we lay the sacred frame, 
And mark the spot where rests the head 
Of him who, dying, is not dead, 

While rings the trump of Fame. 

The brain that framed the lay is naught; 
The voice that spake is heard no more: 
Yet myriad tongues and voices pour 

The simple song they taught. 

And music, trembling o'er the strings, 
Puts forth her fullest flood of sound, 
Till souls, to raptured heights enwound, 

Rise far from earthly things: 



262 




At last; the long-neglected one; 

At last the Land that gave him birth 

Enfolds him in her robe of Earth 
His Ocean journey done; 

And here we lay the sacred frame 

And mark the spot where rests the head 
Of him who, dying, is not dead, 

While rings the trump of Fame. 

— The Second Burial of Payne 



THE SECOND BURIAL OF PAYNE 263 

And upward float, in vague desire 
To feel and reach a higher height; 
Where, streaming inward, springs to light 

A touch of Heavenly fire. 

He had his more than happy hour, 
This Poet. Surely he who sings 
A song whose even cadence rings % 

In every sphere and clime, 

Is great — yea greater far than he 
Who wastes a land with sword and war, 
And scatters wild alarms afar, 

With woe by land and sea: 

Or that one, perched above the throng, 
To shape a mighty Nation's fate, 
A part of all the hollow state, 

Where pomp and show belong. 

They fall; and Memory, moving on, 
Makes no long halt above their names. 
Like leaves that fly, or dying flames, 

They perish and are gone. 

But he, by suffering taught so much, 
Upon the chords a finger laid, 
And every heart responsive made, 

An answer to his touch. 

Till each had made the lay his own, 
And of the thought became a part, 
For what is grown about the heart, 

Outlives the graven stone. 



264 THE SECOND BURIAL OF PAYNE 

And down the ages, sounding long, 
Shall troubled hearts from sorrow rise, 
And sing, with blurred and misty eyes, 

The sweetness of his song. 

Let fame speak from her loftiest dome! 
Let Glory weave her richest wreath! 
For he who, homeless, rests beneath, 

At last has found a home. 

And honored be the kindly mind, 
Cast in a wide philanthropy, 
That reached beyond the restless sea, 

And moved the far design. 

All praise be to the liberal zest, 
That swept away a public wrong, 
And brought the bard, forsaken long, 

And laid him here to rest. 



When this Poem appeared in the Boston Transcript, the Poet Whittier 
addressed the following letter to the author: 

"Amesbury, Mass., 4 Mo. 14, 1883. 
"Dear Friend. Let me thank thee for the beautiful verses in the 
Boston Transcript on 'The Second Burial of Payne' — a fitting tribute 
to the author of Sweet Home and to the liberal hearted gentleman who 
has given the Poet a last 'Home' in his native land. 

"John G. Whittier." 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Read at the joint decoration of graves of Federal and Confederate dead, 
May 30, 1883. 

Come, bring the flowers! bring fair young flowers, that 

freshen green and gay; 
Twine round the wreath and bright festoon, and trim 

the sweet bouquet. 
May Heaven's calm and quiet light to-day be on the land, 
And all from cot to courtly hall assist with ready hand ; 
And we'll approach with measured tread where lie our 

fallen braves, 
To strew the tokens of our love upon their humble 

graves. 

What holier day doth dawn within the circle of the year 
Than this, that bids us deck the sod of those we cherished 

here? 
In each memento we have kept, their presence to recall — 
The rusty musket in the rack, the sabre on the wall — 
They live again to tell the love they spent in fatal field. 
And greater love hath none than this, his life to freely 

yield. 

O Mother, on thy darkened hearth a lengthened shadow 

lies ; 
The smile from off a face has gone, a light from out the 

eyes. 



265 



266 MEMORIAL DAY 

On distant hills the battle-cloud hung mingled with the 

dark, 
And there a manly soldier lay, but lying cold and stark. 
He sleeping waits the final trump among the countless 

dead: 
But, Mother, here are many such. Go, deck their lowly 

bed! 

O Sister, see! Yon grassy sod may hold some fair-haired 

boy, 
Some Mother's main delight and pride, some loving 

Father's joy. 
'Tis meet that you should render here the simple 

tribute due. 
Some sister far away may make a like return to you 
Toward one you loved, who takes his rest amid the 

mouldering brave, 
When she with fair and tender flowers draws nigh and 

strews his grave. 

Ah, well we make the season an occasion for repose! 
Ah, well we turn from trade to pluck the lily and the rose! 
Ah, well we leave the counter and the desk, for but a day, 
And put the little petty cares of daily life away, 
To gather in the grassy field, and where the violets blow, 
And give a thought to comrades of the days of long ago. 

When a quickened stroke of action stirred the public 

pulse afar; 
When the tocsin pealed the dreadful note that spoke the 

rising war; 



MEMORIAL DAY 267 

When the Heavens glowed and lighted in the battle's 

fiery breath, 
And the Nation rocked and shuddered in the harvestage 

of Death; 
But rose up even stronger when the agony was past, 
As the oak is made the firmer by the howling of the blast. 

For here we find the union of the willing heart and hand, 

The foemen of an older day a now united band, 

The griefs of long ago have gone, the pangs of anguish 

cease, 
The notes of Discord silenced in the melodies of Peace. 
And here we gladly honor, in these tokens gay revealed, 
The memory of the gallant dead who fell on either field. 

Perhaps no column highly wrought affections tale may tell ; 
No granite shaft nor marble slab may teach us how they 

fell. 
But let this custom be observed, by loving hearts begun, 
And for successive ages hence descend from sire to son: 
Then far beyond the marble's life 'twill honor do our 

braves, 
When others, bearing fair young flowers, draw near and 

strew their graves. 



DE MINIMIS 

A Poem read at the Dedication of the Little Rock Commercial College, 
December 20, 1883. 

When Morn awaking from her couch of gray, 

Unbars her gates and ushers in the day, 

Not all at once her light in fullness glows, 

But slowly from a dim beginning grows. 

Up from the water's gently heaving line, 

Above dark heights where sighs the mountain pine, 

Along rich landscapes, hidden from the sight, 

Her first, faint presence but a hint of light: 

But in some moments growing free and bold, 

High in the air the sun's red shield is rolled, 

Whence moving in the vigor of its might, 

It wraps the world in floods of lurid light, 

Till last it fades in the folds of gathering night. 



Likewise the river, fretting at its marge, 
And bearing on its bosom barque and barge, 
Began perhaps in some mere tinkling rill, 
Some trickling rivulet, faint — but trickling still; 
Whose curving edges, choked with sodden weeds, 
Stand thick with oziers and with bending reeds, 
But struggling on it works its threadlike way, 
Through cloaked embrasures to the light of day, 



268 



DE MINIMIS 

Where, rolling on with added strength, supplied 
By streams that bring their tribute to its tide, 
It moves, a gathered volume pouring down 
In one grand sweep by city and by town, 
Until its swelling wealth is mixed and lost, 
In that great deep forever heaved and tossed; 
Till mingled are its waters with the roar, 
Of those wild waves that drench the sandy shore. 

And yet again the flowers of the field, 

The tender grass — the fruit of Autumn's yield — 

Whence come they? And what method do they find 

To reach the growth determined for their kind? 

First is the tiny seed, from whence arise 

The springing shoots that push toward the skies; 

Then comes the blade, from which in time is born, 

The ear that holds the full perfected corn. 

And these when suns of Summer, steaming down, 

Have changed in hue to red and russet brown, 

Laid low beneath the mower's stalwarth arm, 

Stand sheaved and dotting all the fertile farm. 

Who hath not seen the bud of early Spring, 
Rise from the stem, a scarce-accounted thing, 
But moving onward doth in time disclose 
The bursting blossom and the full-blown rose? 
Who hath not seen the pregnant acorn draw, 
Apart its yielding shell, by Nature's law, 
And put forth thence a sprout, of promise small, 



269 



270 DE MINIMIS 

That shall in seasons, growing broad and tall, 
Thrust out deep roots firm anchored in its hold, 
And toss strong arms, in storm and tempest bold, 
Till by a century's growth it standeth hoar and old ? 

What mean these things? And why should I advance 
Such themes as one may gather at a glance — 
Things trite and common, bearing no impress 
Of kind suggestion, save their truthfulness? 

To this for answer first impulse replies, 
That even in homely things some lesson lies; 
And he who turns the humblest stone may find, 
Some hidden precept present to his mind. 

So I, from these plain things, would seek to draw 

A friendly moral, kin to Nature's law. 

I seek to show from them that nothing stands 

A thing perfected, shaped by Nature's hands, 

Except that first it was of lowlier state, 

And grew in time an object wide and great. 

The morn, the sun, the river — fruit and flower, 

Were never fashioned in a single hour, 

But finding first their rise in humbler course, 

Waxed strong and stately in their growing force, 

Till last they stood perfected in their ways, 

To fill the world with light or reap its mead of praise. 



DE MINIMIS 271 

The very Earth, whose rounded sphere doth span 
The utmost confines of the works of man, 
The air, the sun, the moon, the glorious skies, 
And each unnumbered star that in them lies — 
All these the Builder's wisdom brought to pass 
Drawn grandly forth from one chaotic mass, 
Not by one instant fiat of His will, 
But by long works that six great ages fill. 
And Man, the last, the best, and noblest planned, 
The crowning issue from the Maker's hand — 
I care not if he rose in some far germ, 
And waxed in being through unmeasured term, 
Until he found his make and ordered size, 
In that fair form that daily greets our eyes; 
I care not if God from the senseless ground, 
Drew forth the plastic clay and rolled it round, 
Till there the man in his perfection stood, 
And God beholding called it "very good;" 
Be what the method, still the fact remains, 
Regardless of what after-growth he gains, 
Stands bare and bald, uncloaked of all disguise, 
That Man, the Monarch, had an humble rise. 

And not alone such was the first of Man, 

His greatest deeds in little things began. 

The wonder-works of mind that he hath wrought, 

Have yet from commonest things been drawn and 

caught ; 
As clasping Science with a friendly hand, 
Her wide disclosures fill a wondering land. 



272 DE MINIMIS 

A silent boy who watched the evening fire, 

And saw the kettle's steam rise high and higher, 

Grasped thus by accident, with active mind, 

The secret that a giant lay confined 

Beneath that fluttering lid; whose force unfurled 

Might serve with proper checks to rule the world. 

And we who live in this fair day of grace, 

See with amazement what has come to pass: 

See burly steamships moved by tireless oars, 

Draw down the wastes where endless ocean pours ; 

See shrieking engines whirling far and wide, 

O'er plain, and marsh, and through the mountain side: 

See forests fall; and hillocks fade away, 

Like frost-banks crumbling on a lusty day; 

Nor last in wonder see the marvels wrought, 

By those keen products of inventive thought, 

Whose nimble fingers fill unending rooms, 

The million spindles of the Northern looms. 

Yet that which we call the wonder of the day, 
Had its beginning in this casual way, 
From a dull urn, with pettiest use replete, 
That hissed and bubbled in the stinging heat. 
And lo, that other marvel that he drew 
From crypted chambers in the vaulted blue, 
And bound in serfdom to his subtle will — 
To do his bidding and his wishes fill ; 
There is no corner of this rounded sphere 
But that the deeds of yesterday appear 
To us today, before our vision placed, 



DE MINIMIS 273 

Flashed through the Ocean's wide and trackless waste: 

From which we gather dazzling globes of light, 

To break the barriers of the denser night ; 

Through which afar we speak, as friend with friend, 

And catch the message that their voices send, 

With which, hereafter, rising yet the more, 

And seeking hidden riddles to explore, 

We, growing cunning in its subtle ways, 

May pierce unmeasured space with ready gaze, 

Or rising to the clouds like feathery things, 

May float the realms of air with folded wings ; 

Yet this quick force, like lightning in its play, 

Was grasped and mastered in the humblest way, 

Brought leaping down from its aerial height, 

By one who sailed a swaying paper kite; 

Who felt with mind awake and active will, 

The tingling shock through all his being thrill, 

As thus he urged, in search and trial warm, 

A childish pastime in a thunder storm. 

Once more. A theme familiar unto all, 
But therefore not less worthy of recall. 

A cowled and hooded Monk of early day, 

Within a lichened abbey, old and gray, 

Who worked with crucible and magic chart, 

At mystic secrets of the chemists' art, 

Found growing underneath his crafty hand, 

A paltry heap of blackened grains of sand ; 

Which, touched by fire with ne'er so light a stroke, 



274 DE MINIMIS 

Went out in loud explosion and in smoke. 
And mankind, seizing on its subtle strength, 
Has drawn the mystery to a wondrous length, 
Thus darkly found; until in this strong hour, 
The very world is subject to its power. 
The mountains quake; the hills of rugged slope, 
Are split and shivered to the topmost cope; 
Whole Nations tremble in its potent sway, 
As thrones and empires melt and pass away; 
Its howling vassals tear the serried line, 
And shattered ranks lie lifeless and supine. 
The very Earth a bloody conduit runs, 
And trembles in the thunder of the guns, 
When War, red-lighted, fills a shuddering land, 
And Misery reaps with never-tiring hand. 

Enough of instance. This the point I make, 

In Nature as in what we undertake, 

There is nothing but begins in lowly guise, 

And later on to better things may rise. 

Be it ours the part of wisdom to commence 

With firm resolve, and gradually thence 

To grow, with no step backward or behind, 

In that sure growth that marks the perfect kind. 

That great old Latin Poet, Horace, wrote 
This precept worthy of especial note 
By all who read : He who has well begun, 
Thereby has half his undertaking done. 



DE MINIMIS 275 

No matter if the start be weak and small, 

It yet may grow to grasp and compass all. 

Let but the founding be with strength and skill, 

We well may trust its after progress will 

Be sure and steady, till in time we find, 

It fills the measure of its full design. 

To-night, O friends, we meet to celebrate 
A thing of interest. Here we dedicate 
To Use and Knowledge these fair-seeming halls ; 
These spacious chambers. Here within these walls 
Shall Skill and Science joined — a generous band 
Dispense their favors with a lavish hand; 
Here Knowledge fair, with penetrating ray, 
Shall sweep the mists of Ignorance away; 
And teach the youth to arm him for the strife, 
And conquer in the battle-field of life. 

To me this seat of learning well doth seem 

To fill the moral argued in my theme. 

But ten scant years have flown since it arose — 

A nurseling plant — the cherished wish of those 

Who wrought its cause in mingled hopes and fears, 

But trusted triumph in the coming years. 

Well hath it grown from that dim day! And now 

It wears its honors surely on its brow. 

In prospect ample and in purpose sure, 

It stands firm-grounded, worthy to endure. 



276 DE MINIMIS 

May it, beginning with those zealous few, 

Rise in importance, till its influence through 

All spheres of heightened thought and sense be found, 

Its seeds of wisdom fall in favored ground ; 

The light it backward flingeth serve to stead 

The feet that grope in darkness as they tread; 

And rising strong and stronger may it stand, 

A lofty beacon seen through all the land ; 

Till last it shines in Fame's high-towering crest, 

Like that large star that glitters in the West. 



<* 



WEDDING SONG 

Low were the winds, and the West was red ; 
A young man called to his love and said: 
"Come to me here by the shining stream, 
And we will sail in a blissful dream; 
We will sail in a blissful dream." 

She came with her wealth of golden hair, 

And her eyes were bright, and her face was fair. 

So they turned from the flame of the dying day, 

And far they sailed away, away; 
And far they sailed away. 

O boat on the breast of the shining stream ! 

O happy twain how fair ye seem! 
And bright and fair may ye ever be, 
Till ye sink in the waves of the shoreless sea; 
In the waves of the shoreless sea. 



277 






DAUGHTER WITH THE IRISH EYES 

Daughter with the Irish eyes, 
Where the light of frolic lies, 
Gleaming with a summer gladness, 
Clear as stars in open skies; 

As thy sunny days expand, 
Roaming brightly through the land, 
Often turn to this remembrance, 
Written by thy Father's hand. 

Here, when other days are thine, 
And above thy pathway shine, 
Suns that unto me are waning, 
On the low horizon line; 

Find a trace of one who wrought 
But in random fields of thought: 
Bound by Fate in narrow circles, 
Truths in scanty measure taught. 

Yet who felt if kinder ways 
Had been hers: and fairer days 
Had but followed up their dawning, 
Songs of his might merit praise. 



278 



DAUGHTER WITH THE IRISH EYES 279 

Early though his course he found 
Lying over broken ground; 
Fought his battle single-handed 
With the toils that Life surround: 

Met the trials of the hour ; 
Closed with tests that tried his power, 
Now in triumph, now in failure; 
Yet whatever clouds might lower; 

What cross might unto him cling, 
What dull load the day might bring, 
Patient bore them; drawing pleasure 
Even from the smallest thing. 

Light of heart, of thought refined, 
Wrought his tasks with quiet mind: 
Strove to fill his utmost duty 
To the world and to his kind. 

One who felt, in brighter prime, 
Eager that the flight of Time, 
On might haste to Fame and Riches, 
Hoped in Fortune's fairy clime. 

But who found, though toiling much, 
Fortune fleeing at a touch; 
Name, a shadow flying forward, 
Fame, a breath evading clutch. 



280 DAUGHTER WITH THE IRISH EYES 

And as middle seasons bear 
Firstling frosts of silver hair, 
Sees life seeming sweet before him; 
Home, a haven shining fair. 

Finds a pleasure deep and sweet, 
In that humble home-retreat. 
Wife and children gathered round him, 
Make his sum of joys complete. 

Daughter, if the time shall be 
I no more am left to thee, 
In thy young heart, clear and tender, 
Keep a memory of me. 




THE WRECK AT NOBSKA LIGHT 



On the 17th of January, 1884, the "City of Columbus," a fine, new, 
and well-built ship, sailed from Boston on her way to Savannah, Geor- 
gia, with 126 persons on board, including the crew. She was in com- 
mand of a captain who had seen thirty years of sea-service, and who, 
in a previous ship, had made the voyage between these points 94 times 
in safety. On this occasion the ship left Boston harbor at 3 o'clock in 
the afternoon, with the Captain at his post, performing his duties skill- 
fully and well. He conducted her safely until Nobska Point was 
reached, at the upper end of Vineyard Sound. Here, thinking all points 
of danger passed, he, at near 2 o'clock in the morning, placed the ship in 
command of the second mate, and retiring to his berth was soon asleep. 
The events of the next hour proved that all dangers of the route had 
not been passed. A strong wind was blowing, and a heavy sea rolling 
in toward the land. In going ten miles off Nobska Point the ship wan- 
dered or was blown, three and a half miles out of her usual course, and 
when rounding the promontory at Gay Head, ran upon a dangerous 
ledge of rock, known to sailors as "The Devil's Bridge." Broken in 
the concussion she sank rapidly astern, leaving only the bow, and the 
forward rigging protruding from the water. 

Of the 126 persons in her only twenty-five escaped with their lives, 
The remainder were either instantly swallowed up by the waves, or 
perished from cold and exposure in the rigging; for those who sought 
safety there remained from near four in the morning until 12 o'clock of 
the day; when succor came. 

One of the saddest features in the story of the wreck was the case 
of a wife, who, when the first wild rush of the passengers to the upper 
deck had been made, begged her husband to save himself instead of her, 
as there was no chance of safety for them both; because with a woman's 
quick instincts even in that moment of supreme terror, overcoming all 
mere animal desire to live, her motherly love recognized that life for 
him meant better support and consequent greater happiness for their 
four children left at home, than she could give, if he should perish and 
she be saved. 

But her heroic devotion went unpitied by Fate. She was over- 
whelmed by the waters; and he, after enduring hours of agony and 
exertion in the rigging, went down to join her in the remorseless fury 
of the waves. 



281 



282 THE WRECK AT NOBSKA LIGHT 

Winter, thou bearest a tale of woe, 

From every tract that the Heavens span; 

The piercing cold; the folding snow; 
The suffering brought to beast and man. 

Thou tellest the form that frozen lies, 
On the vacant waste of the windy moor; 

The wretch that faints, with famished eyes; 
The shivering pangs of the homeless poor. 

Thou tellest the babe at the Mother's breast, 
Held rigid and stiff in a stark embrace; 

The ice that slips from the mountain crest, 
And buries the hamlet at its base. 

But sadder than all that thou canst say, 
Is the grief of that wild tempestuous night, 

When the good ship, out from Boston bay, 
Went down in the waves at Nobska Light. 

Alas for Captain! Alas for crew! 

Alas for the souls that in her sailed! 
When the one tried mind that rightly knew 

Her course, for a single instant failed. 

If the sentry sleep but a single hour, 
If the soldier cease from his keen alert, 

Then the foe leaps in with a savage power, 
And a moment works eternal hurt. 



THE WRECK AT NOBSKA LIGHT 283 

Full rushed the sea and eddying whirled; 

High rose the waves in many a ridge ; 
And yonder where the white foam curled, 

Lay the hidden rocks of the Devil's Bridge. 

Alas for Captain! Alas for crew! 

Alas for the souls that in her slept! 
When the one clear mind that rightly knew 

Her course, no longer a vigil kept. 

She struck on a shelf of the cruel rock; 

She staggered and turned in a helpless way; 
She filled; and, stunned in the dreadful shock, 

Sank deep; this ship out of Boston bay. 

Ah, the five score lives that with her went! 

O Mother, that breath to thy children gave ! 
O Father, in that one moment sent 

To the fathomless sea for thine early grave ! 

O wife, that badst thy husband live, 

Though thine own sweet life should lapse 
and close, 

That his were the hand whose aid should give 
Support to the loved that afar repose. 

No answer was there to that angel prayer, 
For the wild wave rose in its hungry greed, 

And the twain were seized and perished there 
In the wandering fields of the dank sea-weed. 



284 THE WRECK AT NOBSKA LIGHT 

Oh, never shall kinsmen pause and weep, 
By grass-grown mound above their bones; 

Their grave is the vast uneasy deep, 
Their requiem the ocean's moans. 

And thou, O sailor,* gallant and bold, 
That death and anguish fearlessly braved; 

And plunged in surges cruel and cold, 
Full many a failing spirit saved; 

A grateful people honor thee, 

And speak thy praise with clamored tongue ; 
Thy name shall men hold reverently, 

Where deeds of valor are told or sung. 

But the five score they submerged shall stay, 
The woeful work of that loud, wild night ; 

Till the sea shall rise on that final day, 
With the ship that sank at Nobska Light. 



*The gallant conduct of Lieutenant John U. Rhodes, of the U. S. 
Revenue Cutter "Dexter," in saving survivors from the wreck is worthy 
of all praise. Congress passed a vote of thanks to him and his brother 
officers and men. Citizens of Boston raised by subscription $3,000 for 
him, which he generously divided among the rescuing party with him, 
and President Arthur directed his promotion to the rank of captain. 




TENEBRAE 

Written for the Press Convention of Arkansas. 

In far-off regions of primeval Night, 
The voice of God decreed, "Let there be light!" 
And there was light. The Sun's resplendent face 
Burst into life, and darkness fled apace. 
The gentle Day stole o'er the firmament, 
And East and West it's rosy presence went. 
Then Moon and Star stood forth in milder guise, 
To deck the chambers of the azure skies; 
And all was light, and in perfection stood, 
And God beholding saw that it was good. 

Then Man arose; in the Maker's image made, 
With Mind: and with his fairest form arrayed. 
Far he from perfect: yet he held within 
An earnest that with him there should begin 
A growth that into better things should dawn, 
When rolling Cycles should have passed and gone. 
Yea, that his race to higher heights should climb, 
And branch and widen through the fields of Time. 



285 



286 TENEBRAE 

So thus he throve that, down the Ages, he 
Went working out his fruitful destiny. 
From step to step, from point to point, he moved, 
And thus his claim to higher order proved. 
By slow degrees his progress upward lay, 
As Time, recurring, slowly rolled away. 
Bv long succession on from height to height, 
Went far and farther, creeping to the light; 
The while that in the great world's every side, 
The growing races waxed and multiplied. 

Yet darkness lingered. Darkness in the mind, 

And through the serried ranks of human kind. 

Deep mental darkness held unmeasured sway, 

For want of means to sweep its mists away. 

Fair Knowledge fettered held but narrow ground, 

And Science halted, meanly hedged around: 

For he who knew could make another know, 

No farther than his voice or script could go. 

The weightiest word, rich-treasured, passed and fled, 

So soon as lay the speaker cold and dead ; 

For when the brain fraught with the richest lore, 

Went down in death, its knowledge was no more. 

So once again, in those grave day of need, 
The voice of God compassionate decreed: 
"Let there be light," and once more was there light. 
For lo, as if a sunbeam, through the night, 
Should upward shoot its long and streaming mark 
And cleave a passage through the somber dark, 
There rose a light, whose all-sufficient reign 
Has swept the world into its wide domain. 



TENEBRAE 287 

Into the minds of humblest men He put 
The promptings of a device that should shut 
The open portals of dense Ignorance, 
And onward lead the mind a far advance. 
No more the days of darkness should prevail; 
No more the ways of fools and blind assail; 
No more the gems of knowledge should be lost; 
No lapse of truths gained at a painful cost: 
These made perpetual should no more depart, 
Forever fixed through Faust and Guttenberg's Art. 

O mightiest triumph in the Works of Man! 
O greatest service since the world began! 
Thou Art of Arts, who may thy worth confess, 
Or tell the measure of thy usefulness! 
Who doth not yield to thee the foremost place 
In that grand progress of the human race! 
Who doth not place thee in the vanguard when 
We estimate the onward march of men! 
Or where the voice to mock at or descry 
The silent speech that speaketh to the eye? 

Is she not first in worth and eminence 
Who gathers stores of thought and scatters thence 
The seeds of Knowledge o'er the fallow Earth, 
That springing bear the fruits of Use and Worth? 
Is she not first in whose wide store is cast 
The hoarded treasures of the buried Past? 
Not first who grasps the doings of the day, 
Marks Virtue's record: Crime's unholy sway? 



288 TENEBRAE 

Not first who breaks the strength of licensed power; 
In whose keen lashings Monarchs quail and cower? 
Who whispereth to the weak and they are strong; 
Upholds the Right and overturns the Wrong? 
Who wields entrancing Music's tuneful lyre, 
The Painter's brush; the Poet's holy fire — 
Ah, who can mark the borders of her reign, 
That lie like stretches of a boundless plain? 

And ye who sit behind this giant force, 

To turn, now here, now there, its mighty course, 

To you belongs the privilege to be 

A factor in your great Art's destiny. 

If fired with Honor, and with strength like youth, 
Ye throttle Falsehood and uphold the Truth: 
If charmed by Virtue ye advance her cause, 
And strike for higher life, for purer laws, 
Then should the mead of clearest praise descend, 
And mark your footsteps to your journey's end. 

But if to Vice ye lend a willing pen, 
And pander to the sordid tastes of men ; 
If those fair talents unto you designed, 
Be used to cloak the Good, to warp the mind; 
To sneer at Virtue and to pardon Crime, 
To dally with Deceit, to serve the time, 
Ah then — believe me — Devils smile to see 
Their work on earth performed so thoroughly! 



TENEBRAE 289 

May you and may the art you represent, 

Rise high and higher in a sure ascent. 

And standing yet the firmer may ye be 

The light that lights the torch of Liberty! 

The light that streams from Honor's lofty way, 

Where Truth and Virtue shed a mingled ray; 

And shine until Man's works are wrecked and hurled, 

In those rude shocks that shake the closing world. 



* @/<& 



THE SACRED ROSE OF ORIENT 

From lands of suns that burn and glow, 
Far land of palm and spreading shade, 

And those fierce winds that shift and blow, 
His wondrous pilgrimage is made. 

Old Ocean bore him smooth and true, 
Fair winds a kind assistance lent, 

While moved the ship that hither drew, 
The sacred Rose of Orient. 

The earliest of his lordly race, 

The first in measured arcs of Time, 

To press the northern soil, and place 
A footprint in an alien clime. 

This foremost in a vague belief: 
This front in wild fanatic hands. 

How regal did they hold him chief, 
Those wanderers of the desert sands! 

What reverence and what high degree 
Of fervor did around him rise, 

When crowding thousands bowed the knee 
To Buddha,* come in fleshly guise! 



*The Brahmins are said to worship the white 
elephant under the belief that it contains the soul 
of Buddha in the flesh. 



290 



THE SACRED ROSE OF ORIENT 291 

How shook the Earth beneath his tread, 
Clothed on with priestly cerement; 

How low was every loyal head; 
As by the long procession went! 

To him — a beast! O fools and blind, 

When will the time to ye arise, 
To light the darkness of the mind, 

With light that lights the Christian skies? 

And thou, whatever held to be, 

If Buddha, Brahmin, Priest on Earth, 

If Prophet thou: of Royalty: 

Or come to Man from sacred birth; 

Be what thou art; well dost thou give 
This text from thy past service caught; 

While races worship thee, and live 
In darkened fastnesses of thought ; 

That Man should labor for the Good, 
And in the righteous cause be bold; 

Till all be joined in Brotherhood, 
And made one universal fold. 



THE NIGHT-WATCH 



The following poem was suggested by the guard-duty done by the 
writer, over the body of Chief Justice E. H. English, as it lay in state 
in the Senate Chamber at Little Rock, on Saturday night, Septem- 
ber 6, 1884. 

$%*$&$& 

Dim lights in yonder chamber high, 
That looks with all its Eastern side 
To where the river stretches wide, 

And outward to the naked sky; 

What see ye, lights, that faintly flame 
With softened radiance o'er the scene, 
In stillness, such as might have been 

Ere Nature into motion came? 

And thou, O moon, that risest large, 
And flingest out a line of light 
Upon the waters, smooth and bright, 

Where curves the river's broken marge; 



That peepest through this window wide, 
With thy clear sheen and open glare ; 
What see'st thou, as through the air 

Thou pourest down thy silver tide? 



292 



THE NIGHT WATCH 293 

Alas! ye look on all that is 
Of one who filled a noble space. 
The strength of wisdom and of grace, 

The strength of purity was his. 

Who held his course serene and mild 
Through paths that sloped to higher ground ; 
Yet he who had his friendship found 

Him simple as a guileless child: 

With freedom in his heightened thought 
For all that men should think and hold ; 
And fixed purpose made him bold 

To walk the paths that Virtue taught. 

And so he gathered force and might, 
The strength of Truth within his hand, 
Till shining through the lengthened land, 

He stood a lofty beacon light, 

That men beholding from afar 
Should mark, and reverence for his worth. 
He soared above the general earth, 

With shinings like the larger star. 

His life was open and was free 
From latent baseness of the mind. 
His deeds were deeds of Christian kind, 

Benevolence and charity. 



294 THE NIGHT WATCH 

To need he gave with ready hand: 
He kept his scutcheon clear and bright; 
As knightly as the highest Knight 

That ever died in Holy Land. 

And we, whatever men may say, 
I speak for those who love him true, 
We gave to him the reverence due 

When nobler natures pass away. 

We gave what feeble honors stood 
Within our reach; and then above 
We gave the homage born of love, 

As tribute to the wise and good. 

We bore him sadly, and away 
Where yon green hill its slope inclines, 
We laid him by the sighing pines, 

To wait the resurrection day. 



HESHVAN, 8, 5645 

Lines to Sir Moses Montefiore, Bart., on the occasion of his iooth 
birthday, October 26, 1884. 

Long life, my Brother, hath been thine. 

The three-score-ten of Man's allotted way, 
Lo, thou hast passed; and still thy force doth shine, 

In cheerful spheres of day. 

Like those old Prophets of the far-off time, 
Who saw the wonders of the infant world, 

Thy course hath branched across the lusty prime, 
That eras, five, unfurled. 

And thou hast seen the world go onward, like 

The giant that rejoiceth in the race; 
The arms of Science moving up to strike 

Their brand in higher place. 

The mysteries of the lightning and the cloud; 

The hidden secrets of the midmost sea; 
The knowledge of the darkened land, allowed 

Unto the race and thee. 

Yea more. Observant hast thou seen the Cause 
Of human Freedom rising higher still; 

The bondage of the mind o'erturned in laws 
Born of enlightened will. 



295 



2% HESHVAN, 8, 5645 

In these and else, O Brother, hast thou been. 

But never yet, e'en while the Winter's gale 
Dashed down the faded leaflet, hast thou seen 

God's Providence to fail. 

Never the lack of kindly ordered care; 

The gift of being: Nature's usual force; 
Nor star nor system moved in empty air 

Out of its proper course. 

But ever from the earliest dawn of day, 
In that first moment of thine infancy, 

Thine eyes have seen the favor of his Way 
To all the lands that be. 

Seed-time and harvest ; the Sun ; the gentle rain ; 

The sliding moon; the flower; the folding snow. 
All these have been ; and have not been in vain, 

To us who toil below. 

Yea, there hath been the guidance of His hand, 
The same as, ere those earlier seasons fell, 

He guided through the sea and by the land, 
The tribes of Israel. 

May He, O Brother, yield thee still His grace, 
And keep thee safe through many a season more, 

Ere that thou lapse and find thy waiting place, 
'Mid the Fathers gone before. 

That so thou mayest work yet the Good that thou, 
Through lengthened spaces, hast done full and free; 

The deeds that with exalted grace endow 
Thy wide Philanthropy. 




A SECOND SONG 

To-night, O love, the winds are high, 

And in the tree-boughs bluster loud. 
A somber mantle wraps the sky; 

The moon is hid behind the cloud. 
For days the vapor-laden air, 

Has poured a plunging tide of rain; 
Till, soaked and sated, everywhere 

Is dripping wood or flooded plain. 

The maple, of its leaves bereft, 

Is drenched in every fibre brown. 
The elm-tree sways to right and left, 

With giant fringes drooping down. 
The runlet, swollen into force 

Unwonted, with impatient gleam 
Ripples in its curving course, 

To hurl into the larger stream. 

But though without the time is drear, 

And deep the gloom and darkness fall, 
Yet, seated by my ingle here, 

These move me little, if at all. 
The lamps are lit: the fire aglow, 

The kettle sings with gleeful noise; 
And gathered by me, in a row, 

Here are our many girls and boys. 



297 



298 A SECOND SONG 

Again it is the time of feast, 

That notes the Christ-child earthly born, 
When shepherds, in the dawning East, 

Watched, on that distant Winter morn. 
And we our usual cheer display; 

Once more our modest store is seen. 
Again our house and hall is gay, 

With holly and with evergreen. 

Ho, lads and lasses — large and less — 

Be merry as your moods may be ! 
No childish mirth will I repress, 

In this glad time's festivity! 
Go, if your happy hearts incline, 

And revel deep in romp and play: 
Ye who came with St. Valentine, 

At Christmas, and the Virgin's day. 

How strange it seems to count them o'er, 

As one his worldly wealth might call, 
And find they pass a quarter score! 

Our hearts are large enough for all. 
For truly I, with us, can name 

No greater joy than did abide, 
When, after these ten years, there came 

Our second babe at Christmas-tide. 

Dear little elf! How far from deep 
Seems life in tender infant flesh! 

How slender seem the threads that keep 
The tenure of the pulses fresh! 



A SECOND SONG 299 

O gift, that seemest weak and small, 

Yet are ye potent unto good! 
Oh, may thy strengthening influence fall 

Through all the courses of my blood; 

And keep me that reliant man, 

Whom I throughout my past have grown! 
Not faint at heart when studied plan 

Of wearied days seem overthrown. 
Nerve thou my arm to greater zeal ; 

And lift my soul to higher height ; 
Till o'er my days, declining, steal, 

The shadows of the coming Night. 

Ah wife, our blessings have been great; 

Our favors full and manifold! 
For though we show but little yet 

Of hoarded pelf and gathered gold ; 
Yet are there blessings more than these, 

And givings of Diviner kind, 
A calm content, a heart at ease, 

A sweet serenity of mind. 

And what we have, albeit frail, 

And all our earthly holdings slight, 
Yet are they such as rarely fail 

To yield the germs of home delight. 
What pleasured interest do we take 

In spreading shade or leafy bower : 
If lawn, or circled walk we make: 

In shrub or newly-planted flower? 



300 A SECOND SONG 

How dear may simple natures hold 

Each petty nurseling of the way; 
The dot: the tuft: the marigold; 

The violet; or the silver-spray! 
The rose we grew, how doubly sweet! 

How fair the slender lily's head! 
As day by day we watch and greet 

The glories of the garden bed. 

But if without be fair and clear, 

How shall I paint the light within ; 
Or tell the brightness and the cheer, 

That in these growing lives begin? 
Ah, what is life without the love 

Of children? How to dead and dry 
The vacant heart must narrowing move, 

Untouched by childish sympathy! 

As when some cunning harper lays 

His deftest touch upon the strings, 
And, summoning all his magic, plays 

The softest chord the measure brings; 
So children, in their weakness, take 

A hold upon our hearts, and be 
The hands that strike the strings, and make 

Life's best and sweetest melody. 

For see the pride and pleasure made 
For us from out their lightest ways! 

How sweet to soothe the passing shade 
Of grief; or speak the word of praise: 



A SECOND SONG 301 

To aid their tasks: to shape and frame 

The rising intellect: to find, 
And daily welcome with acclaim, 

New glimpses of the growing mind! 

O wife, pray we may never fret 

Or falter at unwise demands: 
But bear with spirits stronger yet, 

And labor on with tireless hands. 
These jewels, precious in our eyes, 

For whom a gracious Power we praise, 
Call strongly for the exercise 

Of patience and of kindly ways. 

And pray — Oh, more than other — pray, 

That, as our pilgrimage is made, 
We, guarding close their every way, 

May keep them safe through sun and shade: 
And as the arc of life we turn, 

And this fair sun is sloping low, 
May, down the vale of life, discern 

Our natures broaden as we grow. 



A FATED RACE 

The buffalo is rapidly becoming extinct on the western plains, from 
the annual slaughter of thousands, by hunters, herders, tourists and 
savages, in mere wanton cruelty called sport. 

Brown herds that swept the level plain, 
With lowered head and tossing mane; 
That filled the hills, a surging tide, 
With crackling hoof and shaggy hide: 
Where have thy countless hordes withdrawn? 
And where thy hosts unnumbered gone ? 

Go ask the wily savage foe ! 

Go ask the herder doth he know! 

And ask the hunter, cruel and cold, 

Who strikes, but not for food or gold. 

Ask if it is not that they court, 

The wanton slaughter known as sport/ 

Like that dark race, their prowess done, 

Close to the lands of setting sun, 

Who hold but scant and dwindled shares, 

In lands that once alone were theirs; 

Thy race, brown herds, is marked and made 

The victim of a swift decade. 



302 



A FATED RACE 303 

And ere the rising age hath seen 
Yon meadows clothed with living green 
Through five decades: ere touched with brown 
The forest leaf shall flutter down 
For fifty times, thy tribes shall be 
No where but in men's memory. 



Yon plain that thundered to thy tread, 
When like a whirlwind on ye sped, 
That sees ye, frightened, wander forth 
Escaping to the farther North, 
Shall find no species of thy race, 
When fifty years have fled apace. 



And wherefore? Ah! For sport be sure. 
Aye sport, to see the brute endure 
The throes of deadly agonies, 
To add another to the prize, 
But slays because he can, indeed. 
Of him who slaj^s not for his need, 



Oh, is it that in Man survives 

No thought of pain in lower lives: 

No pity for the glazing eye, 

The shivering gasp when death is nigh; 

That scenes of such unlovely sort, 

Are relished parts of royal sport? 



304 A FATED RACE 

I trust not. Yet I hold to fears 
That in the next half hundred years, 
The bones of thy last numbered one, 
Shall whiten in the desert sun. 
And suns, and winds, and rains efface, 
All traces of a vanished race. 

In the name of Pity I protest 
'Gainst wholesale slaughter done in jest! 
Accursed be the hands that kill, 
Merely because they can and will ! 
And may some power destruction stay, 
Before the breed be swept away! 



Cloud-high yon stately spire extends; 
White-shafted in the blue that bends, 
Above a Nation proud to own 
The Hero and Memorial stone. 

— The Monument 



■: ## *- 



THE MONUMENT 

Cloud-high yon stately spire extends, 
White-shafted in the blue that bends, 
Above a Nation proud to own 
The Hero and memorial stone. 

Deep-veined the noble structure stands, 
The willing gift of tireless hands, 
Who wrought through seasons, in and out, 
Through times of failure, days of doubt ; 

Who strong of faith, and high of deed, 
Held yet, through hours of sorest need, 
The purpose that the end should prove, 
Fit symbol of a Nation's love : 

And who, through all the long years gone, 
Have brought the structure grandly on 
To this, where Toil, achieving, lays 
Her burden down mid hymns of praise. 

Why count the years to rise and fade 
Since that the earliest stone was laid — 
Count wasted time or treasure flown? 
Doth not the end for these atone? 



305 



306 THE MONUMENT 

A light upon its summit lies 

The gracious boon of nearer skies 

Than ever yet, in other lands, 

Hath graced the works of human hands. 

Within its hollow shell is laid, 
The gifts by countless people made, 
To add one atom to the state, 
That marks the memory of the Great. 

For though he needs no graven crests, 
To keep his name in reverent breasts; 
For though while shines yon vivid sun, 
This land shall cherish Washington ; 

Yet well the banded Nations made 
An offering, each a stone, to aid 
Yon pile to honor him, whose name 
Spreads through the rounded world of Fame 

That ever-widening Fame that lurks 
Behind the day of noble works, 
And though work and subject disappears, 
Still makes a murmur through the years. 

Long may the noble spire be there, 
His worth and virtue to declare! 
Long may the Nation's truest voice 
In his clear memory rejoice! 



THE MONUMENT 307 

Long may the land in vigor thrive, 
To Honor and to Truth alive! 
Long, Plenty and Abundance come, 
And Freedom find enduring home! 

Long may the spire of lordly mien, 
Grace growing State and peaceful scene! 
And long its cap-stone glitter down, 
A star-shine out of Liberty's crown! 




GOMORRAH 

O city of unnumbered crimes; 
Thou London, out of older times 
A cry ariseth naming thee 
The seat of deep iniquity ! 
Not all the brawling din that beats 
Above thy leagues of crowded streets; 
Not all the roar that rolls below 
Yon clouds that slowly pass and go, 
Can dim, or for one moment drown, 
The voice of thine accusers down. 

Accusers? Not alone of men, 
But all that thy dark past has been. 
Those hateful deeds that have been told, 
On every hoary page and old; 
Or muttered by the grayhaired sire, 
Beside the Winter's dying fire; 
Or whispered in the grandame's tale 
To childish lips that blanch and pale ; 
The tale told under bated breath, 
The tale of violence and of death, 
The mob, the rack, the stake, the flame, 
The scaffold, or the deed of shame; 
The lawless act of licensed Power; 
The wild debauch in Hall or Court; 
Or more to make the shudder start, 
The princes murdered in the Tower. 



308 



GOMORRAH 309 

But yet, O London, more that these! 
That makes the chill of horror freeze 
About the shrinking heart, and find 
A lodgment in the idlest mind: 
Aye, more than all thy past proclaims; 
The deepest dye of myriad shames, 
Hath found in thee abiding-place, 
In this fair day of Christian grace. 

For what were all thy splendid guise, 
If under seeming peace there lies 
The deadliest Monster of the hour ; 
That sweeps within its fatal power, 
The fair fruits of the Nation's yield, 
The daintiest blossoms of the field; 
That once drawn in its fiery breath, 
Are outcast even unto Death? 
And what were all thy varied charm, 
If only leading on to harm? 
What Park or Palace, Bridge or Stream, 
If round about thy ways there gleam 
The flitting fires that lure to Sin 
The aimless feet that wander in? 
And what thy Wealth if that it cause 
Not higher life and purer laws; 
And if instead of lessening, swell 
The thousand paths that lead to Hell? 



310 GOMORRAH 

Turn, turn thou London, turn ere yet 
Thy course becomes too forward set! 
Turn ere the might of angered skies 
Doth pour upon thy ill-disguise 
Of Virtue, all of kindled wrath 
Or meted vengeance that it hath ; 
And smite thee with a fiery rain, 
Like old Gomorrah of the plain! 

Oh, better were it that ye stood 
A wilderness of field and wood, 
A heaped and jumbled pile of stone, 
Like Eastern cities long o'erthrown; 
Than that thy limits ere should be 
The nest of such iniquity! 

Oh, better were it that ye should 
Stand in forsaken solitude, 
Like as when thy growth was less, 
And all thy ways were wilderness, 
Ye stood, in time long passed away, 
The lone dune of a Caesar's day. 




*'X' 




j&gg *^m^^ 



? 




Loudly through the barren branches 
Cutting gales arise and blow; 

Like a solemn wind-voice wailing 

O'er the wastes of sifted snow. 

— A Winter Lawn. 



*^ 



fe* 



A WINTER LAWN 



Head-bent stands the slender birch tree; 

Droop the needles of the pine; 
All is winter, bitter winter, 

Through this level lawn of mine. 

Frozen lie the tender rose-shoots: 
Glazed the holly's emerald sheen; 

Heavy hang the clustered bunches, 
Of the swaying evergreen. 

Here are broad walks, heaped and hidden 

In a billowed winding-sheet; 
Brittle grasses broken by the 

Pelting pebbles of the sleet. 

Every leaf is clad in crystal; 

Rare are jewels such as these; 
Every ray of white light scatters 

Glancing silver through the trees. 

Loudly through the barren branches 

Cutting gales arise and blow, 
Like a solemn wind-voice wailing 

O'er the wastes of sifted snow. 



311 



312 A WINTER LAWN 

Yonder poplars by the border 
Bend in sheaths of quaint device; 

Every crackling twig and leaflet 
Hangs with tapered spikes of ice. 

Patience yet! Though all be dreary 
Pinched in Winter's sorest frown; 

Though yon sky be gray and cheerless, 
Boughs be naked, leaves be brown; 

Yet the Seasons are eternal, 
And beyond the morrow's reign, 

Comes a stronger light to waken 
Nature into warmth again. 

And above the narrow Present, 
Moving from the frozen ground, 

Yet shall rise in after-beauty, 
Life that lieth winter-bound. 




Tall tower, that risest fair and high. 

— The Building of the Church 



THE BUILDING OF THE CHURCH 

Make thou mine earthly habitation glorious. 
'Put on thy beautiful garments, O, Jerusalem." — Isaiah iii, 

&&&&&&■ 

Tall tower that risest fair and high, 

Toward the vault of yonder sky ; 

That beamest o'er a prospect wide 

Of city waste and country side; 

Look down in grace and grandeur more, 

And stateliness, than e'er before! 

Look on us, drawn through many ways, 

To lift the voice of grateful praise, 

For this the end that crowneth thee 

With lines of stately majesty. 

The end of labor and the care, 

That marked thy growth from year to year; 

And brought thee on by slow degree, 

To that full strength that crowneth thee. 

Fair house, ye long in building rose: 

But now thy far-drawn labors close, 

Thou standest clad in splendid guise, 

All rich in tint and fair in dyes. 

Like the King's daughter art thou made, 

In vesture glorious arrayed. 

O'er aisle and chancel, nave and beam, 



313 



314 THE BUILDING OF THE CHURCH 

The sun-rays, many-tinted, stream, 
As clear thy blazoned windows shine, 
Through vaulted arches roofed with pine. 
And, holier-seeming, shalt thou make 
Yon organ's rolling thunders shake; 
Or loud thy towered steeple clang 
When some deep clarion there shall hang, 
And scatter through the smitten air, 
The wide-repeated call to prayer; 
Or else, o'er dirges sad and low, 
Shall toll a deeper note of woe. 

And what were all the past regret 
So slowly wert thou forward set? 
Doth not this day for all atone? 
The triumph of this day alone? 
Not this enough ? Doth not the end 
For all the past make fit amend? 
Yea, should we rather honor those 
Who, from the dawning to the close, 
The zealous few, the willing band, 
Wrought on with ready heart and hand, 
Through hours of censure and dispraise, 
Through weary seasons; cheerless days; 
Through days of failure; times of doubt; 
Till thus the end is brought about. 

And long mayst thou, O house of prayer, 
Stand in thy shining presence there! 
Long may the years go by ere thou 
Shalt lightly show, on breast or brow, 



THE BUILDING OF THE CHURCH 315 

The earlier traces of decay; 

Or that thy beauty fade away! 

Long may ye stand to be indeed 

The center of thy people's need, 

And be for them the force that stays, 

Their footsteps through life's winding ways! 

To thee oft come the trusting bride, 
And pledge to him who stands beside, 
Her life entire with his entwined, 
One equal blend of heart and mind. 
To thee for long the child be brought 
And in thy holy lessons taught, 
To lisp the prayer, to hymn the praise, 
Through numberless succeeding days: 
In thee through time eternal be 
The infant pledged to purity; 
The cross be signed upon the front, 
Beside the waters of thy font. 

And as the future time unfolds, 

Full numbered be the zealous souls, 

To dedicate their lives anew, 

To worship of the Pure and True. 

Full many at thy sacred board, 

By faith feed on the risen Lord, 

And take, through grace of Love Divine, 

As sacred types, the bread and wine. 

And more : When past thy portals go 

The feet that, moving sad and slow, 



316 THE BUILDING OF THE CHURCH 

Bear lowly forth the bier and pall, 
To that low house that waiteth all ; 
Oh, may the Word from out thy place, 
Dry off the tear from many a face, 
Of those who mourn the spirit fled, 
To those fair lands where rest the dead ; 
And be the well-springs of relief 
To quell the rising pangs of grief. 

And thou, O servant of His grace, 
That speakest from the Holy Place; 
What Minister soe'er shall prove 
Interpreter to speak His love; 
Be blessings showered on thy ways, 
And peace be on thy forward days; 
May all thy walk be whole and good; 
Thy labors crowned with plentitude; 
Thy prayers be voices of the heart, 
In which thy inner self hath part; 
The whiteness of thy vestment be 
A type of gracious peace to thee: 
And, through the voice of fervor hurled, 
Preach thou the Christ to all the world! 



v~ 



4M^ 

A WELCOME 

At the tenth anniversary of the Social Reading Club, 
December 2, 1886. 

A welcome, friends, with kind good-will to all! 
A royal welcome, as within this Hall 
To-night we gather! Like as a host might send 
His word of greeting unto kith and friend, 
And bid them round his festal board appear: 
So we have bidden all assembled here 
To join, and so rejoice, with us, that we 
Have thus far moved in fair prosperity, 
That here we celebrate, and in this way, 
The tenth occasion of our natal day. 

The tenth occasion! Ah, my friends, these words, 
Have deeper meaning that a glance affords! 
How swiftly have the golden moments slid 
Down these long wastes where buried time lies hid! 
How swift these years, that number half a score, 
Have flown from our grasp, and gone forevermore ! 

Our memory of the event is so clear 

It seems but yesterday, last month, last year, 

A certain few convened, with ardor filled, 

And laid the basis of this genial guild. 

And yet the time through which our doings ran, 

Comprises almost half a human span. 



317 



318 A WELCOME 

I trust they have been years of rich avail, 
In storing up the wealth that doth not fail, 
In garnered knowledge; years of finer thought; 
Of precious metals out of coarser wrought; 
Of deeper purpose and the growth it brings; 
A broader mental grasp of men and things, 
That all the seed throughout these seasons sown, 
To fullness of the harvesting hath grown; 
And we, receiving their bequests, have made 
No meager progress in an upward grade. 

Yet howsoever things like this may be, 

And whether profit was in such degree, 

One thing I know the passing years attest; 

They have brought Friendship, like a welcome guest, 

To dwell among us: and her bond increase 

As season unto season added peace: 

And that her growth was ever more and more, 

Still reaching on to points not gained before; 

'Till like a tree that stands in generous ground, 

With shade and sturdy branches spreading round, 

It lifts a strength of leaf and limb entwined, 

That breaketh not before the wildest wind ; 

And firmly set in all its pristine prime, 

It holds a fruitage for the coming time. 

These years have proven years of chance and change. 
But who shall tell the measures, sad or strange, 
That have beset our forward-moving ways, 
And marked our footsteps in those fleeting days! 



A WELCOME 319 

What hopes, what high ambition filled our needs! 
What dreams of glory or of shining deeds! 
What zest of righteous pleasure did abide 
As down the stream we sailed with wind and tide! 

Yet were there times of sadness and regret, 

When pangs of partings' deepest grief were met; 

As one by one some loved adherent, drawn 

By destiny or chance, was lost and gone: 

As link by link went from the golden chain, 

Till few — ah few — of that first group remain; 

It seems a subject almost fit for tears, 

To think how few are left from out of those Pioneers! 

To some their path through other region lies, 
Where deeper sunsets flush the western skies. 
And some by mountain peak, or o'er the wave, 
As Fate has moved them or as Fortune gave. 
Yea, not a few who once were of our band, 
Now find their portion in an alien land. 
To such we say: O friends, where'er ye be, 
Rejoice with us in our festivity! 

And some there are to whom the greater change, 
That waits all objects in our earthly range, 
Came down, as comes the gentle close of day; 
And gaps were broken in our close array. 



320 A WELCOME 

Oh, if it be that souls which once we knew, 
Have prescience in them of the things we do, 
Then may we think that from their Realm of Day, 
They look upon us in approving way; 
And though their tongues are hushed for evermore, 
They silent watch us from the other shore. 



Alas, that change should work in grievous ways, 

Through all endeavors of our mortal days! 

Alas, that those about whose presence we 

Hold tenure by Affection's deepest fee, 

Should leave us, failing from the living needs, 

Naught but a memory of their gracious deeds ! 

Ah ! what may we, from year to year, do more, 

In witnessing the past, repeated, o'er; 

Than say, reviewing each familiar scene, 

Sweet friends, for aye we'll keep your memory green! 



Ah, well, but let no shade of sadness steal 

Along the lines, to mar the joy we feel ! 

The rather, let us turn to present things, 

For warmth, and for the moral that it brings. 

That which has been is ever past and flown, 

But in its stead a newer worth hath grown. 

In seasons past our strength was good and clear, 

In equal measure do we find it here. 

If much was lost and parted from our hands, 

Much hath been gained, and so the balance stands. 



A WELCOME 321 

How like the staple of our daily lives! 
The old departeth, but the new survives. 
The old was fair, review it how we will, 
But yet the new is even fairer still. 
Between us and the Past we close the door, 
And look to what the Present hath in store. 

Wise shall we be in life always to find 
Some source in present things to please the mind. 
The Past hath been, and cannot be re-sent. 
Its chests are empty and its treasures spent. 
That which the Future hath we may not see ; 
The Present only is reality. 

Therefore we bid you, friends assembled here, 
Be with us in our proffered festal cheer! 
Help us to make the occasion fair to see, 
That marks a decade in our history; 
To make the final glories of this night, 
Grow more and more in gayety and light ! 
And saying thus, my pleasant part is done. 
A kindlv welcome unto everv one. 



»X<^ 



A WOODLAND IDYLL 

O Summer eve, when by the fields, 
With sauntering feet I idly strayed, 

And in the amber sunlight heard, 
The sounds the woodland made! 

The breeze that through the swaying boughs, 
In drowsy accents lightly swept; 

And tinkled all the emerald leaves, 
That on the aspen slept. 

And clear across the seas of wheat, 
In yellowing waves that rise and fall, 

Afar in measured cadences, 

I heard the partridge call. * * 



I turned and caught the distant note: 
It soothed my soul with boyish dreams ; 

And cast a backward glance at days, 
Seen but by Memory's beams; 



'Imitations of the birds. 

322 



A WOODLAND IDYLL 323 

When light of heart, of spirit gay, 

Nor caring what should after be, 
I wandered through the open world, 

Where pleasure beckoned me. * 

Till musing on the vanished scenes, 

Once more I felt my inner soul 
Grow glad, as from a swinging limb, 

I heard the oriole. * * 

Ah, sweet and clear! Bright-crested friend, 

A blessing for the song ye sing! 
And may thy nest, through all the years, 

From foes protected swing! 

Be thine the pleasant part to sing 

Whenever that thy heart is gay; 
Nor ever grief nor loss conspire, 

To drive thy joy away! * 

Long may thy wondrous-fashioned home 
Be shelter for thine young and thee; 

Thy kingdom and possession find, 
In every branching tree! * * 

And onward still through leafy lanes, 

I moved with spirit full of love; 
As through the woodland ways I heard, 

The cooing of the dove. * * 



324 A WOODLAND IDYLL 

tender note! What woe is that 

Which makes thy burdened heart complain, 
And bids thee pour to listening ears, 
The sadness of thy strain? 

Canst thou know aught of scenes of grief, 
Of unrequitted love: of fears; 

That fills the measure of thy days, 
With sadness and with tears? * * 

1 venture not! He made ye all 

For gladness; shown in song and wing. 
For witness! Out of yonder bush 
I hear the blackbird sing! 

I hear him bravely flinging forth, 
A song of cheerfulness and glee; 

For thus across the peaceful scene 
His song comes unto me! * * 

Ah yes, for gladness! Sing O bird! 

With sweetness fill the Summer day! 
And give to every breeze the song, 

That reacheth far away! 

Nor ye alone ; but let a song 

Well up from every feathered throat! 

Till all the woodland ways be rich, 
With wealth of tone and note. * * 



A WOODLAND IDYLL 325 

And soon came answer to my wish; 

It rose from out the level field; 
As high the yellow-breasted lark, 

His ringing whistle pealed. * * 

Ah, sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy lark, 

Sing yet again thy song of power, 
And let thy clear voice farther charm, 

The stillness of the hour! 

Yea once again, sweet meadow-lark, 

Break forth into thy wonted way 
Of silvery sounds, that break and fall, 

Where glancing sunbeams play! 

And teach me that thy mellow note, 

Goes up in paeans, loud and clear, 
For blessings manifold, and all 

The joys that greet us here! * * 

Summer eve, wherein, by fields 
Of waving wheat, I idly strayed, 

1 turn with fond remembrance to 
The pleasant hour ye made! 

And o'er the faintly-fading time, 

I see a softened glamor fall; 
As clear among the woodland scenes, 

I hear the partridge call. * * 




DETAINED 

Under the laws of New York, if a witness in a criminal case is unable 
to give bond for his appearance at the time of trial, he is held as a 
prisoner in the "House of Detention" until the trial takes place. When 
Edward Stokes shot James Fisk, the hall-boys in the hotel, who saw 
the shooting, were held as such prisoners for three years, awaiting 
the trial. 

Like lightnings, flashing from some towered height, 
That shiver the crag, or blast the branching pine, 

Strike down, O State Imperial, in thy might, 
And sweep away this false decree of thine! 

Too dearly was our freedom bought of old, 

Too highly held in framing of our laws, 
That thus its form should languish, dull and cold, 

Or men should find a prison without cause ! 

There have been prison-tears in other lands, 

From hard Oppression putting forth its powers; 

There have, for naught, been shackled feet and hands, 
But — God be thanked — not in this land of ours! 

What is it makes the Nation's many tribes 

Like gleaming lights among the worlds of men? 

It is that on her frontlets she inscribes; 
The untouched freedom of the citizen! 



326 



DETAINED 327 

Thy giant highway, spanned athwart the stream ; 

Thy cities' splendors; boundless wealth; and all 
Thy glorious parks: and, what doth grander seem, 

The roaring thunders of thy waterfall; 

All these have made thee great — and thou art great; 

Yet this dark blot on thy escutcheon falls, 
That in thy midst men languishing await, 

Devoid of crime, in ghastly prison walls. 

What! Is there no Statesman bold and strong, 
Armed with the Right, in logic whole and sound; 

To pierce the vitals of the monster Wrong, 
And shake the rotten edict to the ground? 

No Legislator, trained in counsel fair, 

Whose lifted voice a clarion note shall ring; 

To smite Injustice from her covert lair, 

And purge the statute-book of such a thing? 

Soon may he rise! And thou, mightiest of States, 

Shalt be Imperial, grander than before; 
When Freedom fully stands within thy gates 

Unharmed, with ne'er a closing prison door. 



328 DETAINED 

With Freedom for us as the breezes fly, 
And Freedom in the turf we tread upon, 

This must not be that any man should lie 
Bereft of Liberty, no evil done. 

This is no land or clime for legal wrong! 

Our boast is that the humblest here is free, 
To speak ; to think ; to do ; the weak ; the strong ; 

And none be held save those adjudged to be! 

So must it be, or else our vaunted claim, 
Is weak as reeds before a rushing storm! 

Or this, or else is Freedom but a name, 
A soulless Image, or a hollow form; 

A mockery; a delusion and a dream; 

A substance not of vital flesh and sense ; 
A jargon-phrase, however fair it seem, 

A sad travesty, and a vain pretense! 

And thou, Imperial State, to whose fair land, 
Rich Nature gave as free as she possessed ; 

Where Art and Science, moving hand in hand, 

Have reaped the world's wealth on thy fertile breast ; 

Thy realm a land of wonders: lake and sea 
Engirt thee, and the mountain's clouded steep ; 

Wide rivers; and, with torches streaming free, 
Yon world-famed Image guards the moving deep: 




A FORSAKEN BUILDING 

Poem read at the re-union of students of St. Johns' College, Little Rock. 

O silent halls, where once the surging tread, 
Of youthful feet that sought the fountain head 
Of Knowledge, echoed through thy kindlier days, 
Thine arched portals and thy shaded ways: 
Where Science skilled to train the opening mind, 
Paid out its coin for payment back in kind; 
Where rich Instruction moved with patient hand, 
To glean the yielding of the fallow land; 
Once more thy sons and daughters gather in 
Thine ancient circuit, where of old hath been 
The pulsing of the very life that moved 
In all thy branches, and thy value proved; 
And gathered by thine Altars, overthrown 
Through long disuse, and all thy Fate hath known, 
The mind turns back beyond the tender haze, 
That hangs between us and those older days; 
And Memory, busy with her brighter side, 
Casts up her pearls, as doth the rising tide; 
And calm Reflection turns her gleaming light, 
On deeds and things long buried out of sight; 
Till each one's inner consciousness must show, 
The sacred presence of the long ago. 



329 



330 A FORSAKEN BUILDING 

A broken College; a forsaken fane. 

Yet surely was thy life not lived in vain. 

Not even if ye stood with face enwound 

With cobweb dust and crumbling to the ground; 

If over tower and turret should be spread, 

A desolation seeming of the dead; 

Like that which came through Fortune's cruel stab, 

On the princely gardens of Af rasiab ; 

Yet would thy past with noble riches shine, 

Because of much thy deeds have rendered thine. 

The doings of that day I well recall 

When first thy doors were opened unto all. 

How thronged the students eager to enroll, 

And drink a draught from Learning's proffered bowl! 

I see it all, for I was of the throng; 

Almost the youngest as we moved along. 

A juvenile scholar, lugging book and slate, 

And waiting, trembling, by her opened gate. 

As if but yesterday it all appears, 

Though seen through the mists of nearly forty years. 

Ah me! what thrill of joy the moment had! 

A great occasion to a stripling lad. 

And then, as time went on, how greater grew 

The zest, as we successive pleasures knew! 

The games, the pranks, the jests, and greater still, 

The lined precision of battalion drill; 

As o'er the campus in long lines arrayed, 

We, mimic-soldiers, tactic-lore displayed. 



A FORSAKEN BUILDING 331 

Alas! alas! Too soon the season drew 

Close unto hand that called for all we knew; 

And we who shouldered muskets but in play, 

Now bore them forth to clash in deadly fray. 

And out of those who felt their bosoms burn, 

Went many forth, but never to return. 

I see where'er I turn enquiring sight, 

A row of gravestones gleaming in the light. 

The gallant Thompson, pure of heart and brave, 

Almost the first to find a soldier's grave, 

Fell charging where his squadron led the way, 

Into the very hottest of the fray. 

Bronaugh went, too; his manly form laid low, 

Defending Richmond from the threatening foe. 

Lewis lived on amid such scenes as these, 

But sank beneath the ravage of disease. 

Ringo, perished of a mortal wound, 

Sleeps his last sleep in Lynchburg's burial ground. 

There where the cannon's loudest thunders roared, 

John Marshall stood with ever-ready sword; 

But scarce the blessedness of Peace was sealed, 

When he, too, joined his comrades of the field. 

Into more than thirty battles Noland went, 

Yet lost his life by hapless accident. 

Rector, against the breastworks led the van 

In the Helena fight, and fell, — the foremost man. 

Thibault, in the very sharpest of the fight, 

Laid down his life on Iron Mountain's height. 

And let the record other instance yield; 

Carl Hempstead sleeps on Shiloh's fatal field. 



332 A FORSAKEN BUILDING 

Ah, those were days of anguish, deep and keen, 
Of breaking hearts, with weepings in between ; 
Too sad to meet a more prolonged recall, 
Where kind Oblivion lets her curtain fall. 



Nor will the time avail me to relate, 
What came to each in the Lottery of Fate; 
Or speak what incident to each befell, 
While raged that fearful holocaust of Hell. 
We men — a meager handful — we who bear, 
In middle life, with slowly whitening hair, 
The burden of a never-ending strife, 
Are all that's left from out that wealth of life. 
For should a calling of the roll be made, 
Like the first Sergeant in our dress-parade, 
Of more than half of all it would be said, 
From civil life or fields of battle; "Dead.'' 



Yet not to linger on the darker side, 
Where gruesome shadows of the Past abide, 
The rather let us turn to later date, 
For brighter days that dawned upon the State, 
When all the sharpness of the battle's wrath 
Was blown aside, and Peace pursued her path; 
And when from out the ashes of the Past, 
That noble pile aside her sackcloth cast, 
And, emerging from the sorrows of the hour, 
Began a newer lease of life and power. 



A FORSAKEN BUILDING 333 

Nor should I fail to see that here again, 

From this, the chiefest portion of her reign, 

Was born a noble line of sons, who made 

Her glory potent, and her prestige laid : 

Until to-day in every avenue, 

The Bench; the Bar; the Press; the Pulpit: through 

The ever-changing lines of Commerce: by 

The bedside of the dying: or whese lie 

Grim pestilential dangers: where are made 

With tireless hands the bustling marts of Trade; 

At the designer's frame: with the chemist's rules; 

At the busy mill: the counter: in the schools: 

In legislative councils, where sedate 

Enactments rise to guide the growing State; 

All, all shall own, where Man's invention falls, 

The secret influence of those silent halls. 



Nor yet should fail to note that later day, 

In which the older order passed away, 

When in her changing history it befell, 

That the gentler sex found equal rank as well. 

And thus the usual sternness of the place, 

Was lighted up by many a maiden face; 

While kindlier influence found unnoticed way, 

To many a mind unused to feel its sway. 

They too have gone to all the walks of life, 

To rear: to lead: to teach: as child or wife, 

Each drawing from the abundance garnered there, 

To fit them for the duties of each sphere. 



334 A FORSAKEN BUILDING A 

And who is there that did not feel a pang, 

As, loud upon the smitten air, the clang 

Of deep-toned bells rang out that fearful night, 

When the grand old pile was swept from human sight? 

When bursting out of roof and window came 

The rolling smoke, with quivering tongues of flame; 

When one by one, the walls, with thundering sound, 

Fell, cracked and tumbling, even with the ground; 

And far and wide, athwart the vacant plain, 

Went floating outward showers of fiery rain ! 

Then Ruin held high carnival complete! 

Her funeral pyre a seething core of heat. 

So may we think that each and all may grow, 

Reflector-like, her earlier worth to show. 

That though the ancient time-piece strikes no more, 

Its chime shall be remembered as of yore : 

And down the seasons as we glide along, 

Its past shall prove the sweetness of its song. 



4V 



AFTER SLUMBER 

After slumber, waking; after silence, song. 
Like a strain of music, flowing swift and strong. 
After muteness, speaking; after sadness, joy; 
Resting as a means of vigor we employ. 

After drouth, the dropping of the gentle rain, 
With its growing forces come to life again; 
After clouds, the sunshine; after Winter, Spring — 
So the round of Nature runs in everything, 

Teaching by the use of symbols still and mute, 
That as from leafless branches springs the flower and fruit, 
So, rising from the nerveless state of dead and dry, 
Comes the higher life that brightens bye and bye. 



335 



LIFE 
A Sonnet 

Fair land, that liest radiant in the gaze 
Of him who feels the thrill of vigor, while 
Yon sun, that reddens all its Eastern ways, 
Flings down its wealth of arrow-pointed rays ; 
Thou seemest like to some enchanted isle, 
That sittest, fruitful, basking in the smile 
Of Orient richness. Yet anon how nigh 
Stands fitful Change! When shadows over-lie 
Thy hillocks, barren-growing, and the plain, 
Thy measures cold and colder greet the eye, 
In somber dullness clad ; and all in vain 
The voice calls back a Summer-warmth again. 
O Life, by whatsoever means it be, 
Stay thou awhile thy onward tread for me! 



POETRY 
Quatrain 



A song as in a quiet eve, 

Whose lingering cadence long survives, 
Is Poesy: with skill to weave 

Fair Fancy through our duller lives. 



336 



%&¥$&&&& 







THE HOLLY TREE 



Full fifty seasons have I stood, 
My boughs defying storm ; 

Full fifty summers have I felt 
The sunshine streaming warm; 

Full fifty winters have I borne, 
My gems of berries red; 

For fifty years my walls of green, 
Unchanging have been spread; 

Yet rarely in that vanished time, 
Those swiftly-speeding days, 

My wealth was put to better use, 
Or placed in fairer ways, 

Than when yon olden mansion held, 

A not unfrequent thing, 
Within its ample portals drawn, 

Its latest gathering. 

337 



338 THE HOLLY TREE 

'Tis true that oft, in earlier days, 

Scholar and Sage sedate 
Have sought my friendly sheltering, 

And pondered things of State; 

That here amid the tender grass, 

That lies about my feet, 
Hath Beauty wandered pensively, 

Her favorite retreat; 

It hath not been a thing unknown 
To me, to cast my shade 

On rounded arm, or shapely form, 
Or figure fairy-made; 

Or that below my supple branch, 
Some earnest lover spoke 

His love, at times by me, and then 
By yonder knotted oak. 

What time the level lawn was filled 

With silver tinted rays; 
While we, with sheltering shadows, held 

The pair from prying gaze; 

And oft, indeed, the time hath been, 
When moving from my side, 

The gallant bridegroom forth hath led 
His angel-featured bride; 



THE HOLLY TREE 339 

Yet not before there hath, I ween, 

Been fairer hour for me, 
Than that which marked the concourse of 

That goodly company. 

Methinks my varnished leaves took on 

A shade of finer light; 
And out of very pride I turned 

My thistles out of sight. 

And though I might not move, I felt 

A joy akin to those 
Who drank the dainty fragrance of 

The lily and the rose; 

As though I, too, held humble lot, 

And was a part at least, 
To make complete those rarer hours, 

Of welcome and of feast. 

I murmur not at boughs bereft, 

At limb and leaflet torn, 
For these dismembered parts of me 

By Beauty's self were borne 

To deck yon hall, yon mantle-shelf, 

Or where yon arches turn, 
To stand with friendly ivy grouped, 

With smilax and with fern; 



340 THE HOLLY TREE 

And bathed in floods of mellow light, 
From waxen-tapered space, 

Look down upon these moving groups 
Of loveliness and grace; 

To watch the swiftly-flushing cheek; 

The brightly-glancing eye; 
Or note, as with a sense acute, 

The barely uttered sigh; 

Or hear, in distant measures sweet, 
From alcove faintly borne, 

The dulcet strains of concord made 
By viol and by horn. 

Ah, these were things that made me long, 
That pulse and sense might stir, 

And let me slip the moveless state, 
In which my fortunes were; 

That I might take the form and kind, 

Of human actions here, 
To speak and move amid so bright 

And dazzling a sphere. 

Take freely, mistress of the manse, 
Whene'er thy needs may be; 

Take, freely take, of leaf and bough, 
That so mine eyes may see, 



THE HOLLY TREE 341 

What comes to those, the great and fair, 

Who move in circles high; 
And thou wilt find me staunch and true; 

Thy loyal subject I. 



»>«« 



ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON 



Dead wizard of the world of song, 

The hearts of myriads, loving thee, 
Are dull with grief at that decree 

Which called thee from the mortal throng; 

And I, who am the least of those 

Who listened to thy honeyed tongue, 

When the flames of thought within thee rose; 
And drank the mellow verse that rung, 

Approach not now thine open grave, 

And seek to weave a wreath of verse, 
Nor o'er thee willow leaves disperse, 

That I some small attention crave; 

But like as when the Craft doth mourn, 
Those Brothers of the Mystic Tie; 
When from their circle one doth die, 

And to his resting place is borne; 

I make the sign; I beat the time; 
I cast my sprig of evergreen, 
And trust I have thy Brother been 

In wide Freemasonry of rhyme. 



342 



ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON 343 

II. 

Thy Brother? Not to rank with thee. 

Thy heights I cannot climb to them; 

I stoop to kiss thy garment's hem, 
In hinting at fraternity. 

A smaller claim my senses seek; 

A lesser joinder: like as we 

May match such things as do agree 
In some small point, however weak. 

I look on those whose hearts are filled 

With tuneful beats, which Verse excites, 
Who find in Poesy delights, 

As members of one common guild ; 

So feel it not presumptuous wrong, 

To speak of being joined with thee, 
Though boundless distance in degree, 

Doth bar me from thy raptured song. 

in. 

I sit so far within the shade, 

That men may say I make pretense, 
And mine occasion gives offense, 

If I should mourn o'er thy decade. 

May not the humblest tone that's rapt 

From out the sweep of some old harp, 
Receive a discord, harsh and sharp, 

When that the leading string is snapped? 



344 ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON 

And if I be the smallest chord 

In all the wide world's minstrelsy, 
Yet felt a grief when unto thee, 

There came the summons of the Lord. 

I may not find the line or word, 

To shadow forth the sense of loss, 
I felt upon my spirits cross; 

Nor how my being's depths were stirred 

When through the Ocean's void there flew, 
The subtle wings that men release, 
That brought the news of thy decease, 

Yet I shall feel it, through and through. 

Shall feel a sadness, o'er and o'er, 

In moving through the days to come, 
To think thy voice forever dumb, 

And men shall see thee nevermore ; 

Nor ever feel the sentient powers 

That gave the life to meager things; 
That wove the deeds of Knights and Kings, 

Through crownings of their finer hours; 

With color flashing through the lines, 

And sweetness seeming all thine own; 
As, hedged within a glamour thrown, 

The star of Romance brighter shines, 



ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON 345 

And lives; until, with furrowed brow, 
We look the living region through, 
And sadly ask the question: "Who 

Can fill the Laureate's office now?'' 

For who can weave the dainty thread; 

The fitting word : the rythmic phrase ; 

Or go from theme to theme and raise 
To life, expression lying dead? 

For unto him did Nature give 

The range of all her vast concern; 
With power to make her passions turn, 

And all her varied phases live; 

To paint, with deftest touches, free, 

And drawn through Inspiration high, 
The glowing tints of field and sky, 

In clouds of raptured reverie. 

IV. 

O rounded moon, that risest clear, 

And lookest down with glances cold; 
Thy flood of silver doth enfold 

The windy downs of Haslemere; 

And, through the creeping shadows sent, 
Mayhap some passing ray may rest 
One instant o'er the tranquil breast, 

That lies in shroud and cerement; 



346 ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON 

Or gleam above the comely head, 

With wavering touch of dark and bright; 
To play about the walls; and light 

The features of the noble dead: 

Thine orbit's wide immensity, 
And, in thine eternal round, 
Hath never shone above, or found, 

A sweeter singer born than he. 

And fit it seems in human eyes, 

For so he loved thy glamour bright, 
That thou should'st give thy widest light, 

To waft his soul to Paradise. 



O Death, thy numbing touch hath wrought 
Such change upon the Master Mind: 
Yet in the printed tome we find 

The golden ore of garnered thought; 

Of faith, that breathes with living breath; 

And love, that thrills in pulse and frame; 

Of hope, and, that which chief became, 
The calm Philosophy of death. 

And still when cycled times are done, 
As men drink in the mellow lay, 
Shall many a grateful spirit say ; 
"O God, be thanked for such an one." 

October 8, 1892. 



NATIONAL SONG 

Sung at the celebration of Washington's Birthday by the Arkansas 
Society Sons of the American Revolution, at Little Rock, February 

22, 1896. 

O land that shinest fair and bright; 

Thy bounds are set from sea to sea; 
And through thy wide expanse of light, 

There Freedom finds her home with thee. 
Fling wide thy banner. As it flies, 

Oh, may the light thou sheddest be 
Like to the holy light that lies, 

Upon the brows of Liberty. 

Here Nature with her lavish hand, 

Hath spread her wealth in dale and hill; 
And rich Abundance smileth bland, 

By every rushing stream and rill. 
And every vale and mountain-place 

Proclaims with fervid voice, that here 
Thy patriots, of a hardy race, 

Shall keep thee safe from ill or fear. 

Then rise, in thy majestic mien, 

The First of Nations, as of yore; 
America, thou peerless Queen: 

Thy prowess growing more and more! 
Thy sons thine honor shall maintain, 

On field and wave, by sea and shore; 
And thou, eternal, shalt remain, 

The land of Freedom evermore. 



347 




AMERICA 

Land, great and boundless: thou 

Who bearest on thy brow, 
Freedom's light, that gleameth like a star; 

Hear us, thy children, sing 

Thy praise an offering 
To thy fame, that ever shines afar. 

Foremost of the Nations, may ye be 

Evermore the land of Liberty. 

Long may thy course abide, 

With Wisdom at thy side; 
Thought and Speech unfettered hold their sway; 

Long may the Rights of Men 

Be as thy watchword, when 
Grandly thou dost urge thy forward way. 

Foremost of Nations, may ye be, 

America, the land of Liberty. 

Wide let thine ensign fly; 

Thy sons of courage high, 
Shall defend thy sacred soil from wrong. 

Patriots won thee long ago; 

Patriots still will keep thee so. 
Hearts for thee are loyal, arms are strong. 

And, foremost of the Nations, shall ye be, 

O land of Hope, the land of Liberty. 



348 



w^m 



REGNAULT 

Over the sands of the Barbary coast, 
To the white walls of far Tangiers, 

There came the cry of a battle lost, 
And a warlike Nation bathed in tears. 

As ship after ship drew into the port, 
And furled her wings in a safe retreat, 

With bales, unladen, of divers sort, 

Each brought the news of a fresh defeat; 

To where an Artist pondered, and wreathed 
His dreams of beauty in fadeless dyes; 

As the Spirit of Heaven within him breathed, 
And fashioned his themes in splendid guise. 

It was Worth, and La Tour, and Gravelotte, 
In an endless line since the war began; 

It was Metz, gone down in a storm of shot, 
And an army wrecked at fatal Sedan. 

Then the Artist roused from his dreamful ease, 
And stung, as with pain, for his native land, 

Hearing her voice over distant seas, 
Calling her children to rise and stand 



349 



350 REGNAULT 

Like a living wall, round her citadel, 
Turned from the calm of his studio, 

And sped o'er the wave, as it rose and fell, 
To grapple to death with her hated foe. 

Oh, bitterest dregs in the cup of Fate! 

The war rolled on to its destined close, 
And the hand of help was held too late, 

For the Painter fell in its final throes. 

Sacrifice useless! Ah, what avails 

The deed of the one 'gainst the tidal flow, 

When the fate of a Nation is tried, and fails; 
And the sun of her splendor is sloping low? 

O Gift of Genius, an offering made 
In the awful hour when patriots bleed! 

O Spirit Divine, thus freely laid 

At the holy shrine of a people's need ! 

Oh, the forms unformed, that perished then ! 

Oh, the color and shading, forever lost! 
Oh, the masterpieces, denied to men, 

When the Painter lay dead in the war's holocaust! 

Never the sky on the canvas laid; 

Never the light on cloud or wave; 
The Gift, whose touch Immortality made, 

Slumbers for aye in the Artist's grave. 



REGNAULT 351 

Honor him, Nation of Beauty and Art: 
Let the blood of the hero eternally claim 

A place in the throbs of each patriot's heart, 
And his name be enwreathed with the halo of 
Fame! 




SILVER-WEDDING SONNET 

Far-flown, O wife, is that September day 

Your life was linked with mine; and out of those 

Bright times of sunshine, fading faint away , 

We journeyed hand in hand unto the close 

Of these swift years between our wedding-day. 

And fain would I make here a marriage-lay 

To tell how, through these diverse seasons flown, 

Thy patience and thy trustfulness have grown 

To make the light of daily life increase 

Through all its varied phases ; and have shown 

How Hope shall rise, and thoughts of sadness cease 

In this our home, — a haven-land of peace. 

Look long, kind eyes, where here our treasures rest, 

And Love sits crowned, an ever-present guest. 

September 13, 1896. 



y^y^y^ 



352 



ytk 



A-WHEEL 

Fresh and sweet the breezes are, 

Over meadows spreading far, 
The moon a waning crescent o'er the dew; 

In the misty light of dawn, 

Ere the night is wholly gone: 
And the morning star receding in the blue. 

By the roadway, straight and white, 

In the slowly-growing light, 
Down the sloping hummock's long incline, 

To the valley, flat and low, 

Where a rosy, golden glow, 
Breaks from out the far horizon line. 

Speeding on by level plains; 

On through shaped and leafy lanes, 
Vocal with the chirp of twittering bird; 

By the bridge; and russet banks, 

Past the long and jumbled ranks, 
Of the drowsy, half-reluctant herd. 

Backward turning where the town 
Silent gathers, wide and brown, 

Pointing skyward with its clustered spires, 
While the sun-ray's rising beam 
Gilds the window panes, that seem 

Like a host of twinkling Winter fires. 



353 



354 A-WHEEL 

Far away the clang of bells 

On the morning stillness, tells 
That now the waking world becomes astir; 

As the busy marts of Trade, 

Starting into life, are made 
Clamorous with their wonted din and whirr. 

Sweeping on with easy whirl, 
How the pulses leap and swirl! 

Ah ! Who can tell the joy the senses feel, 
In the crisping air to fly, 
With the landscape rushing by, 

Greeting kindly Nature thus a-wheel. 




A SOUTHLAND SONG 

land for which our fathers died; 
Land dearer than all Earth beside; 
Thy praise shall men forever sing, 

Where Fame and Truth their tribute bring. 
Thy fate be mine. Whate'er betide 

1 with thee evermore abide. 

Clime of the South, o'er land and sea, 
My heart is thine where'er I be. 

Fair are thy vales; and sweetest flowers, 
Bedeck with wealth thy forest-bowers; 
Here blandly smile the days among 
The gifts by generous Fortune flung. 
Thy maids as fair; thy sons as brave, 
As ever kindly Nature gave. 
Southland, such is my love for thee; 
My heart is thine where'er I be. 

Here gracious seasons gently flow, 
Bright skies of deepest blue below; 
And Thrift, from every dale and hill, 
With plenty doth thy garners fill. 
Here balmy airs from Summer blown, 
Like days of Eden make thine own. 
Land of the South, peace be with thee ! 
My heart is thine where'er I be. 

February 22, 1899. 




A SEASIDE SONG 

The summer wanes, and the autumn gains; 
And down by the waves is dull and gray; 
But sadder yet, that none may forget, 
To-morrow brings with it a going away. 

Ah, never again by the sounding main, 
May we two walk, as we walked of yore ; 
And the sands grow white in the evening light, 
Beneath our tread o'er the sloping shore. 

Ah, never may beat about our feet, 
The waves that break and wildly fly. 
The dark comes down with a sullen frown, 
And the light dies out at our sad good-bye. 

O comrade, beside yon seething tide 
We part and wander our varied ways; 
And out of our lives, glad and eager, survives, 
Only a memory of halycon days. 

For though never so bright be the rising light, 
That gilds our pathway day by day; 
Yet o'er it is cast the shade, that, at last, 
There comes to us all a going away. 

And down in the deep of a dreamless sleep, 
Where my soul will be sometime called, I pray 
That, with peaceful rest of the head and the breast, 
There be never, forever, a going away. 



356 




The Summer wanes, and the Autumn gains, 
And down by the waves is dull and gray. 

— A Seaside Song 



a^s 



AT HAVANA 

There's murder down in the Southern main, 
Where a good ship lay in the ports of Spain. 
And a craven enemy came by night, 
And flashed the fires of Hell into light. 

Treachery, men! And shall things like these, 
Go on in the "Pearl of the Antilles?" 

For far less cause, in the days that are done, 
Has War, with its numberless woes, begun. 
For less than this have sea and shore, 
Been red with the flow of human gore. 
Be it only, that, with evil design, 
Some black heart fired the fatal mine. 

And who, as we stand on the brink of to-day, 
Can look in the far-seen Future and say 
When that the earthquake shock will cease; 
Or the land draw on into War or Peace? 
Alas for the slain, in the Spanish main, 
If their blood work not for Freedom's gain! 

But into the darkness let there be 
The light of a thorough inquiry; 
Nor fear of the issue serve as shield, 
To keep the uttermost truth concealed. 
And this be the call, heard over all ; 
"Be justice done, though the Heavens fall.'* 

February 17, 1898. 



357 



THE BATTLE-CRY 

Flash from every headland high, 
The wakened Nation's battle-cry! 
Signal out from mast and spar, 
Through flag and pennant borne afar, 
The rumblings of a mighty war ! 

Fling out the sails — the guns aboard; 
Close up the lines ! Unsheathe the sword ! 
And battle's bellowing waves be rolled 
On that cruel race, whose crimes are told 
Throughout the thousand years of old! 

And so it be that o'er the sea, 
The booming guns shall thunder free, 
Across the tumult, wild and high, 
Be this the Nation's battle cry; 
For Freedom, and Humanity! 

And from these hours of conflict wrung 

A rescued People's life be sprung. 

And Peace, through tears of anguish wet, 

O" Cuba's wasted Isle be set; 

And Freedom's fires burn brighter yet. 

O Nation, held by higher laws, 
Move grandly in thy righteous cause! 
For through it all we plainly see, 
The guiding hand of Destiny, 
For Freedom, and Humanity. 

April 22, 1898. 

358 



AT MANILA 

Red was the dawn of that Sabbath day, 
When the inshore guns, where the fortress lay, 
Bellowed across from the arms of land, 
That circled the bay on either hand; 
Loud was the scream of shells that flew, 
Above the stretch of the crested blue, 
At the fleet that boldly sailed the while, 
Down by the edge of the Philippine Isle. 

Quick was the clamor and hurrying then, 
Out on the decks of the fleet of ten ; 
And bomb and shot from the starboard sent, 
Forth on their murderous mission went: 
With the guns ashore; and along with these, 
The work of the demons under the seas ; 
The hidden mines, that creep beneath 
The water-line, with the touch of death. 

But heeding not as the shot swept by, '% 

That fleet still held to its purpose high; 
Keeping awhile its thunderous power 
Waiting the word from the conning-tower ; 
Till last from the boatswain's deck was sent 
A cry that over the uproar went; 
And the Commodore's undisturbed command, 
That the time of the opening was at hand. 



359 



360 AT MANILLA 

Then the loudest guns in a broadside roared, 
And the deadliest shot destruction poured; 
Till one by one to the Spaniard came 
The gulphing wave, or the wraith of flame. 
No cowards they; but each went down, 
With his pennant any for land and crown! 
Till the roar of the battle ceased, and then 
Naught was left of the fleet of ten. 

Victory wondrous ! More wondrous yet ; 
When over the waters the sun had set, 
Not a Spanish flag, in the startled bay, 
Flew, at the end of that Sabbath day. 
And under that banner, starry and fair, 
Not a sailor lay dead or dying there, 
In the fleet that stood as a victor the while, 
Down by the edge of the Philippine Isle. 



M 



FUGITIVE POEMS 

L'ENVOIE 
To a Correspondence Report 

Look long, O tired eyes, to see 
If in yon tomes some treasures be. 
Dig deep, if haply ye may find 
Some hidden meaning of the mind: 
Some pearl of Thought; or latent hint 
Of Knowledge, rich in tone and tint: 
As one might softly walk amid 
The silent forms of Knowledge hid : 
And touching one by one awake 
Each sleeping form to life; and make 
Each gem to take its proper place, 
Arrayed for beauty and for grace; 
So may this gleaning prove to gain 
A winnowing of goodly grain : 
The fruits of widely scattered seed ; 
To serve, mayhap, a passing need, 
In its message to the few who read. 



361 



HYMN 

Sung by the author to original music, at Lodge of Sorrow in Little 
Rock, held April ioth, 1891, the day of the burial in Washington City, 
of Albert Pike. The first verse by Thomas Montgomery, 

"There is a calm for those who weep : 
A rest for weary pilgrims found. 

They softly lie and sweetly sleep, 

Low in the ground; low in the ground.'* 

Sleep, dreamless head, in endless peace; 

And be thy slumbers soft and sound : 
There where all pain and sorrows cease ; 

Low in the ground; low in the ground. 

Sleep thou, by care no more oppressed ; 

Where tears and grief no more are found : 
Till God shall call us all who rest 

Low in the ground; low in the ground. 



362 



BANQUET SONG 

From an unfinished Operetta. 

Fill, fill the glasses to brimming: 
Put by dullness and care: 
And in the diamond-like sparkles 
Drink once to love and the fair. 

Deep, deep, drink of its richness : 
See how the sparkles arise ! 
O Love, the vintage has borrowed 
Light from the light of thine eyes ! 

See, see, here are thy blushes, 
Caught in the ruby glow : 
And in the delicate amber, 
Here, too, does thy brightness show. 

Deep, deep, drink of its richness. 
See how the sparkles arise ! 
O Love, the vintage has borrowed 
Light from the light of thine eyes ! 

Click, click, the glasses are tinkling, 
Filled with the foam of the vine. 
Ah, if the heart could be merry 
Ever like to the joys of wine! 

Deep, deep, drink of its richness: 
See how the sparkles arise ! 
Let each think the vintage has borrowed 
Light from his loved one's eyes ! 



363 



THE MORNING-GLORY 

Written for a Child's recitation. 

Fair Dian did the chase pursue 

When flushed the East with golden glory : 
Her sandaled feet dipped in the dew, 

That lay upon the mountains hoary. 

She paused beneath a trumpet-vine, 

And for the distant hounds-cry listened : 

When on her shoulder, white and fine, 
A tiny dew-drop fell and glistened. 

She upward glanced in quick surprise, 
While still her waiting posture keeping : 

With drooping head there met her eyes, 
A purple bugle-blossom weeping. 

"Why weepest thou?" the Goddess said: 
And thus the flower faint replying: 

"No sweet perfume is by me shed: 
A single hour beholds me dying. 

"I am not fragrant like the rose: 
The pink ; the lily, is my reason" : 

"O covet not the state of those," 

The Goddess said: "You have your season." 

'For in this hour of early morn, 

No blossom blows, your tints excelling: 

O let not Envy, anger-born, 

Within your bosom find a dwelling." 



364 



THE MORNING-GLORY 365 

"Take not from others' worth offense. 

Each thing," she said — so runs the story, 
"Some special merit owns; and hence 

Your name shall be The Morning-Glory." 




THE MODERN KNIGHT 

We may not wield the mace or shield, 

No champing steeds may neigh; 
No light may glance from barb or lance, 

Nor shrilling clarion bray; 
Yet Honor calls through Knightly Halls, 

And loud her summons rings; 
Hold fast the Good ! And honor Him 

Our Captain — King of Kings! 



366 



THE DAY WHEN THE SAVIOR WAS BORN 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Words and Music by the Author. 

Ring, ring, ye bells; with music clear: 

Ring out a merry chime: 
Let songs and voices celebrate 

The merry Christmas time. 
For the Lord of all came as a child, 

Upon a Christmas morn: 
And our hearts should fill with thankfulness, 

For the day when the Saviour was born. 

Oh, great and gracious was the deed, 

That He as Man should be; 
And take our nature on Himself 

From Sin to set us free. 
No more can Wrath or Hell prevail: 

Death of its sting is shorn: 
For Satan's power was overthrown 

On the day when the Saviour was born. 

Lo, in the night a rising light 

Streamed through the East afar: 
And the Wise Men rose and followed it, 

To find it was His star. 
So let us follow till we find 

His grace our lives adorn. 
And evermore we'll yield Him praise, 

For the day when the Saviour was born. 

367 



"WILL HE COME AND FIND ME READY?" 

Will He come and find me ready; on that distant final 

day: 
When sun and moon shall perish: and when earth shall 

melt away: 
And all the starry firmament be rolled up like a scroll, 
And naught survive destruction, save the universal soul? 

When the deeds done in the body shall be sifted one 

by one, 
And the scales shall tip and tremble with the weight of 

deeds undone: 
Will He come and find me ready: with my record all in 

trim: 
To stand the test of trial in the searching sight of Him? 

Ah me, my trust is in Him. Dear Lord, so shape my 
ways, 

That thine may be my service, through my life's remain- 
ing days: 

So draw my deepest fervor in devotion unto thee, 

That I may answer, "Ready, 3 * at the time Thou callest me. 



368 




"THE TEMPLE OF THE LORD ARE WE" 

For offertory voluntary; at St. Paul's Church on "Go to Church 
Sunday," February 6th, 1916; to the Music of Aloha Oe. 



Saviour, dear to us Thy Temple be: 
The Temple of the Lord are we: 

May my soul in Holy rapture rise, 
To Thy Mansions of Bliss in the skies. 

CHORUS 

Thy favor be, abundantly, 

On us thy humble children as we pray 
The gentle grace from out Thy face, 

Be as our solace to our latest day. 



May the precious message of Thy Love, 
Be that which draws my heart above: 

And the sweetness of Thy service be, 
Evermore a delight unto me. 

CHORUS 

Thy favor be, abundantly, 

On us thy humble children as we pray 
The gentle grace, from out Thy face, 

Be as our solace to our latest day. 

Amen. 



369 




OH, THE GLORY OF THE LILIES 

Easter Carol, to Original Music by the Author. 

Oh, the glory of the lilies, on this glad and happy morn; 
Oh, the white and shining symbols that a brighter day is 

born. 
When from out the open portals of the cavern where He 

lay, 
Came the Son of God in beauty on that distant Easter day. 

Oh, the lilies, oh, the lilies! How they scatter sweet 

perfume, 
As they tell us of the Master risen up from out the 

tomb. 

Gentle Jesus, meek in spirit let Thy humble children be; 
With a faith forever steadfast; and with looking, Lord, 

to Thee. 
And Thy love, oh blest Redeemer, through the cross and 

through the grave, 
Shineth ever down upon us, to uplift us, and to save. 

Oh, the lilies! oh, the lilies! May their fragrance 

ever be, 
A reminder of the Savior as He died for you and me. 



370 



LATER POEMS 

TO CALIFORNIA 

Land of the ruby and golden glow: 

Jeweled in mountain and valley below: 

Rich, surpassing all human ken, 

And grandly rich in her splendid men: 

Fair as the land of Eden : fair 

As the isles that lie in the Orient air: 

Great in her trees, and the rose's perfume: 

In the wondrous wealth of her fruit and bloom : 

But yet, O land of the Western Sea, 

A higher crown I proffer thee: 

A crown of an even juster pride, 

In that thou holdest, on every side, 

Jewels greater than these by far, 

In the splendid types thy daughters are. 

Land lit up by the Sun's last ray, 

In this thy chiefest pride display: 

That, great as thy wealth from Nature's store, 

Thy sons and daughters are even more. 

September, 1904. 



371 



A MEMORY OF A WESTERN JOURNEY 

Glint of gold on a sapphire sea, 
And a pleasant memory comes to me : 
Of the glorious stretch of a beryl Bay 
And the frowning heights of Tamalpais; 
Of the swish that the curling breaker has 
By the prison Isle of Alcatraz: 
Of the oak and the eucalyptus, seen 
Through their pendant walls of living green: 
Of the walk through the cedar-scented air 
In the hills of Berkeley, brown and bare: 
Of the stream that sings to the sliding moon, 
From its tortuous channel, boulder-stewn ; 
That lies in many a fold and twist, 
By the hills that are hued like the amethyst: 
Of the peak that lifts from the vale below, 
With its beetling turrets clad with snow: 
Of the mist creeping inward, heavy and dull, 
Hiding the haunts of the seal and the gull: 
And the blackened walls of the Night retire 
In the lengthened stretch of the street of fire: 
With its myriad colored lights that dip 
For miles away to the ferry slip: 
And the land is light to the harbor's lip. 

Again; where the fissured cliff -rocks reach 
To the wide expanse of the lonely beach: 
And the desolate waste draws on to be 
By the shores of the lifeless Inland Sea: 

372 



A MEMORY OF A WESTERN JOURNEY 373 

Or there where, out in the dazzling day, 
An army marched with banners gay: 
With the steeds, and the show of martial pride, 
And the populace banked from side to side ; 
With cheering that echoed far and wide. 

Or more. Of the concourse, vast and gay, 

In the monster Hall, at the head of the way, 

Where the redwood branches intertwine 

With the fragrant leaves of the mountain pine : 

Of the welcome that sat in eye and hand : 

Prompt to comply with the utmost demand: 

Where the word of request was the voice of command. 

Glinting of gold on an azure sea, 
I welcome the memory thou bringest to me: 
As I gaze on the fading lights that end 
Where the sea and the sky-line together blend. 



* 



EPITHALAMIUM 

Bright be the light, O daughter of mine, 

Upon thy path as the years decline: 

And fair be the care of the World to thee, 

Through the unknown realms of The Time To Be. 

May all of joy and the richest grace, 

Within thy life have part and place: 

And day by day, through Time untold, 

Thy blessings be full and manifold. 

And thou, who standest with her beside, 

With thee may brightest joys abide. 

And year by year thy steps appear 

Bestrewn with blessings, full and clear: 

Till unto thee, O happy twain, 

The Sun of Life descends amain: 

And, the while its destined course fulfills, 

Sinks slow below the Western hills. 

March i, 1905. 



374 




The stream that sings to the sliding moon, 
From it's tortuous channel, boulder-strewn. 

— A Memory of a Western Journey 
(The head-waters of the Arkansas, near the Great Divide.) 



IN THE GOLDEN WEST 
San Francisco 

Ashes and dust is the Pride of the West; 
With her circling hills for a flaming crest : 
Ruin and flame in her border lies, 
As the smoke-cloud mounts to the lowering skies: 
For the brute Earth rose in its terrible wrath, 
With a swirl of fire for an aftermath; 
And shook the hills that reared in pride, 
And rended the rocks of the mountain side: 
Till in the sweep of its pitiless might, 
The redwood swayed to its topmost height, 
And the triumphs of Man, on every hand, 
Were tumbled and strewn on the Ocean sand. 

God pity the hungry, the houseless, and they 

Whose lives have been dwarfed in a single day : 

God pity the souls that were sent, in a breath, 

From the stillness of Sleep to the stillness of Death : 

God pity the hearts that are broken and sore 

For kinsmen and friends that are no more : 

But let a benison gently fall 

On the one of pearl gleaned from the loss of all: 

That the hearts of men came ready and free 

To deaden the pangs of Misery: 

In the rescue and aid, by humanity made, 

Through the uttermost bounds of the World displayed. 

375 



376 IN THE GOLDEN WEST 

Grieve, O Land of the Western Sea, 

For thy dead; and the Cities despoiled in thee: 

For spire and column prostrate sent: 

For dome and turret, shivered and rent: 

For hut and palace, mingling, made 

Like the jumbled heaps of a past decade: 

Yet look, O Land, unto fairer skies, 

And see thy stricken homes arise, 

With a dauntless courage as of yore, 

To stride in the human van once more: 

From the blackened space of each ruined place, 

With a beauty outvieing thine ancient grace. 

April, 1906. 



SEXTENNIAL 

Is it the lees of life, and nothing more, 

When the years have come to the triple score? 

Is it only the close of a Winter's day, 

Where the sunshine fades in the West away? 

Is it only the tip of the mountain crest, 

Where the lingering rays of the sunlight rest; 

And where, through the mists of the Past, are seen 

The ghosts of the joys that once have been ; 

While down in the valley, far below, 

Lie the graves of the things of Long Ago? 

Nay, nay. Not that. For he who holds 

By the simple faith that the World enfolds, 

Finds, unto Life's last, feeblest spark, 

That the daylight far exceeds the dark; 

That the Seasons bring, as they glide away, 

More days of brightness than days of gray; 

That the Spring gives place, in its varying moods, 

To the mellowing tints of the Autumn woods; 

And stars come out in the evening air, 

Which we fail to see in the noonday glare. 

And here, as I backward turn mine eye, 
O'er the faded days that behind me lie, 
How like a flitting glimpse appears, 
The vista made by these sixty years! 
Gone ; and forever. Beyond recall, 
Each deed of itself to stand or fall, 



377 



378 SEXTENNIAL 

In the eyes of Him who judgeth all. 
But yet we cling to the firmer hope, 
That each will be seen in its wider scope ; 
And out of His mercy we be hailed 
With large allowance where we failed. 

As the day dies out in a golden gleam, 
And the red West glows with its parting beam 
So would I, friends, when it comes my lot, 
Wish to depart thus calmly, and not 
As the Old Year passes, sad and slow, 
Wrapped in the shroud of the Winter's snow ; 
But the rather in twilight, fair and clear, 
Where the quivering discs of the stars appear. 

November, 1907. 



This poem won me the L,aureacy. It was written on the occasion of 
my sixtieth birthday. F. H. 



AT A DAUGHTER'S WEDDING 

Joy and sunshine hast thou been, 
Daughter; thou who here, within 
The circle of thy kindred, now 
Hast taken thus thy marriage vow. 
Dutiful daughter ever thou wast! 
Thy kindliness and patient trust; 
Thy wholesomeness ; have made of thee 
A fount of brightness, and of glee. 
And where the need but did command 
The generous aid of thy helping hand ? 
For these, and all thy sweetness, we 
Of thy parent roof-tree cherish thee ; 
And will long, with loving hearts possess 
A memory of thy gentleness. 

But let no shade regretful creep 
Across our spirits, as we keep 
Thy wedding festival : nor destroy 
This hour, held sacred unto joy. 
The rather let us say, as thou 
Wast sunshine here, so also, now 
As here thou standest wife and bride, 
Thy chosen mate with thee beside, 
Thou wilt be sunshine to him, as he 
Walks down the path of Life with thee. 

So be it. Our fervent prayers remain 

Forevermore upon ye twain. 

Our richest blessings rest on ye, 

As go ye forth through the world to be. 

July 15th, 1908. 

379 



POEM AT LAUREATION 

■J& 

Strike hands with me, O Brethren mine ; 
And hear me, each, with hand in thine, 
If yet that grace reside in me, 
Make promise for the Time to be. 

If that the Muse, of measure true, 
Doth not in listless fashion, through 
The slow decease of high desire, 
Sit silent by a faded fire : 
If yet there comes, in finer hour, 
Some lingerings of that Spirit's power, 
That creeps within the inner soul, 
Her gems of beauty to unroll: 
O then, I trust, if even slight, 
Some ray of that ungoverned light 
Upon my waiting soul may stream, 
And light it with her clearest beam: 
May wake to life this feeble tongue, 
To sing deep lays, as yet unsung ; 
Then will my Spirit joy amain; 
As thirsting plants drink grateful rain. 

If so, O then, I dedicate 
Whatever strength that, soon or late, 
May come to me, to this fair Cause, 
Wrought out through scope of higher laws ; 

380 



POEM AT LAUREATION 381 

That all that beareth Beauty's name, 
Be hailed with welcome and acclaim; 
The Good be ever forward set; 
The cause of Truth be stronger yet. 

So may it be. That grace abide, 
In gentle measure by my side ! 
God grant my life, imperfect here, 
Some essence from that higher sphere! 

Chicago, October 5th, 1908. 



CHICAGO 

City by the inland sea, 

Fair thy borders seem to me; 

As memory, backward turning, gleans 

A fruitful harvest from thy scenes. 

Long hath my vision wandered through 

Yon water's trembling fields of blue; 

And watched the feathered waves that break 

By the walk-way, wrested from the lake. 

Fair lie thy terraced hillocks, hard 

By miles of level boulevard; 

Where scarce for speed mine eyes descry 

The forms that flit like arrows by. 

Ah me ! The Parks, with verdure strewn ; 

The lawns of velvet, smoothly mown ; 

The trees, with branching arms outspread, 

With long leaves quivering overhead; 

The statued forms, that lordly stand ; 

The buds ; the blooms, on every hand ; 

The Palaces, with gardens fair; 

The towering structures, high in air ; 

The long streets, stolen from the Night, 

With the dazzling glow of their changing light; 

All these come back, and more unnamed, 

Like a pleasing picture, golden-framed. 

But yet, O City, more than this; 
Aye, more than all thy splendor is, 
I hold that high fraternal care, 



382 




And watched the feathered waves that break 
By the walk-way, wrested from the Lake. 

— Chicago 



CHICAGO 383 



That fills the breasts of the Brethren there. 

The kindly word, the grasp of hand ; 

The thrill that the soul can understand. 

Full well I know, O Brethren, ye 

Gave a brother's greeting unto me ; 

In words whose kind uplifting cheers 

My heart through the waste of the fleeting years ; 

In deeds of which the sweetness folds 

Over all for me that the Future holds. 

City by the inland Sea, 

Ever will I cherish thee, 

As the homestead of Fraternity. 

And long may this gentle spirit grace 
The Craft in each abiding-place; 
And Joy bestow on all her crown, 
To last as long as the stars shine down. 

October 21, 1908. 



'LAUREL CROWN THAT CAMEST TO ME" 

Laurel crown that earnest to me, 
As least among the favored three, 
Look down the while my soul receives 
The lesson of thy gleaming leaves. 
What counsel dost thou bring to me, 
Thou emblem of Eternity; 
In that thou, circle-wise, doth bend, 
With not beginning, nor with end ? 

A charge, with deepest meaning fraught, 

Is in thy twisted branches taught; 

In that thou standest unto me 

As the voice of a great Fraternity: 

A voice that spake from shore to shore ; 

And by the message that it bore 

Hath made me debtor, evermore. 

But deeper yet thy worth shall be, 

O circlet fair, if unto me 

Thou bringest back, through kinder ways, 

The Summer warmth of earlier days : 

Of days when Life was fresh, and through 

It's varied changes Pleasure drew: 

When Fancy, wakened, wandered far; 

And Hope shone like a rising star: 

When Nature gave, in accent fine, 

Her solace in the sighing pine: 

When Autumn held her riches spread 



384 




The statued forms that lordly stand 
— Chicago 



"laurel crown that camest to me" 385 

In oaken branches, splotched with red: 

Days when, unvexed with passing harm, 

Each hour was bright, and brought it's charm: 

Days lying in a fairy land, 

When Youth and Warmth went hand in hand. 

Nay, nay. Thou canst not. Nor canst bring 
To Autumn's chill the flush of Spring: 
Thy power to do is dwarfed and strait. 
The Past is past, and sealed of Fate. 
I can but turn mine eyes to rest 
On yon light, fading in the West; 
And see, below the purpling skies, 
It's glow die out, no more to rise. 

Stead me, laurel crown, to be 
Strong and loyal unto thee; 
And lift me, by some potent spell, 
To heights wherein the Muses dwell: 
That there some sacred spark may roll, 
Like lightning-flash upon my soul; 
And wake some burst of melody, 
To make it's way from sea to sea: 
Like wind-blown seeds to find a place 
To grow in vigor and in grace. 

Laurel crown, henceforward be 
Guide and guerdon unto me. 



FLOOD-TIDE 
At Pine Bluff, 1909 

Mile-wide yon river rushes down, 

With its whirling current swift and brown. 

As wild and fierce as the wave that roars 

By the level stretch of the Ocean's shores. 

And there where the water circles wide, 

In a swerving curve to the country side, 

The wrath of the wave goes sweeping free 

And wildly upward leaps to see 

How swift the high bank disappears 

That has stood the floods of a thousand years. 

Ah me. Shall Man thus vainly own 

That his utmost skill is overthrown? 

Shall Science sit with bended head 

And see but ruin widely spread ? 

See house and home of the anxious town 

From firm-set bases tumbling down, 

As the flood sweeps on with its crest of foam, 

And its keen tongue laps at the sandy loam; 

See farm and factory swept away 

Without the power its rage to stay ? 

Ah, weak is the craft he best presents 
In a war with the raging elements ! 
Aye, weak and frail to wrest away 
The water's clutch from its destined prey. 
What art of Man can chain the flow 



386 



FLOOD-TIDE 387 

Of the tawny tides that come and go? 

His art in all the world beside, 

Finds limit in the rushing tide: 

And his mightiest efforts slack and pause, 

When Nature's fury overawes. 

Courage yet, O stricken town. 

What though the flood-tide surgeth down; 

And steel-gray hang the clouds that change 

Above the dull horizon's range: 

Yet firm endure. Thy fate shall wane, 

And days of favor dawn again. 

From out the anguish of the hour, 

Be born a newer grasp of Power. 

A light shall shine from a brighter sky: 

And thy redemption draweth nigh. 



IN MEMORY OF POE 

Alone on Fame's far heights is he, 

This Poet of a distant day; 

And unrelenting Fate had sway 
To shape his hapless Destiny. 

For who, unmoved, can read the tale 
Of cold neglect and cruel scorn 
That marked his path; or anguish born 

From effort, made of none avail? 

The burst of Genius, weird and fine; 
The flash of Fancy, wild and free: 
Curbed down by divest Poverty, 

Or strangled by the Demon, Wine. 

But be the weakness all complete, 

He scaled the topmost crest of Thought 
In critic keenness, strongly wrought 

To winnow out the chaff from wheat: 

Or loose the cry of Passion, hard 

And fiercely breathed as Autumn storm; 
Or shaped to some melodious form, 

That marks him as our greatest Bard. 

And ever shall my scorn descend 

On ghouls who reach into the grave 
To stab the dead; nor seek to save 

One atom of the name they rend. 



388 



IN MEMORY OF POE 389 

For him no cortege wound its way; 

Nor funeral tolling sounded o'er 

His loved and native Baltimore, 
When that his Spirit sped away. 

Poor and repressed in life, yet when 

These hundred years have lapsed and flown, 
There come the wise of earth to own 

His grandeur mid the ranks of men. 

And such that power fantastic his, 
And such the glamor, fading not, 
That Minster ground, and Fordham cot, 

Become the shrine that Mecca is. 

And out of cities where he craved 
The merest husks in blighted days, 
There come the loudest strains of Praise: 

— Those cities where he starved and slaved. 

Apostle he of dismal gloom; 

Yet a Nation, tardy, draweth nigh, 
With shouted pseans, loud and nigh, 

And lays her laurel on his tomb. 

Faint recompense for ancient wrong, 
O'er vacant dust to halt and pause. 
He died, denied her just applause, 

This CHIEF AMONG HER SONS OF SONG. 



390 IN MEMORY OF POE 



How better were his life not marred 
By hopes she gave but to deceive; 
Or had she soothed and said: Receive, 

O child of genius, thy reward. 



January 19, 1909. 



IN THE SOUTHWARD VALLEY 

At Fort Smith, Arkansas. 

A Pastorale 

Over the valley wide and green, 
In the light of a glorious eve is seen 
The far-off line of a hazy blue, 
Where the mountains take an azure hue. 
And growing here and there on the sight, 
Stand the dotted rows of the huts of white; 
As from where the crested ridges lie, 
A dazzling vision chains the eye: 
A gem of Nature's tapestry. 

O peaceful vale in the Summer air, 
Broad lie thy farmsteads, rich and fair. 
See, yonder line of a timbered ledge, 
Is the wooded fringe of the river's edge. 
Here, checker-wise, beneath the feet, 
Lie the even fields of the swaying wheat. 
And yonder the hedges sloping down 
To the river, flowing slow and brown, 
Weave over its edge a leafy crown. 

391 



392 IN THE SOUTHWARD VALLEY 

Out of the highway, smooth and straight, 

Flying along at the lightning's gait, 

Here in the oaken grove we stay, 

And scan the prospect stretched away; 

Gaze while the fleecy clouds draw by, 

And the red globe sinks in the Western sky ; 

Gaze, under yon descending sun, 

Till peak and sky are fused in one; 

And the shadows show that the day is done 

O haze of blue. O huts of white. 
O vision of supreme delight. 
How often shall thy lovely phase 
Come back to me in other days. 
How oft the evening breeze awake 
The phantasy thy beauties make. 
How oft in cells of Memory rise 
The scene beneath those glorious skies, 
Where the Southward valley peaceful lies. 



May 21, 1909. 




AN INVOCATION 
To the Great Organ at Ravenswood 

Roll down in volume vast and grand, 
O organ tones of tenderest strain; 
And let thy clear notes swell amain, 

Waked by a master hand. 

And from thy lofty alcove, long 
In gentlest measures, far and near, 
Thy message to the listening ear 

Shall float in cadence strong. 

And who shall tell the joy of these 
Who listen to thy mellow voice, 
And feel the secret soul rejoice 

In chords from out thy keys; 

Or lift the thought to higher place, 
And find their inmost Being thrill 
To hear the plaintive treble trill ; 

Or rumblings of the bass. 

As oft as thou, in rhythmic flow, 
Breakest out in sweetest melody, 
To fill the heaviest heart with glee, 

Through flute and tremolo. 

Or yet the ecstasy prolong, 

As with thy notes, in mingled strains, 
Some glorious voice in fervor gains 

A burst of triumph-song. 

393 



394 AN INVOCATION 

And rises on, attuned with thee, 

A higher vocal force to win; 

Till tone and phrasing usher in 
The hour of rhapsody. 

Yet Time, O organ tones, shall urge 
Thy staves in many a wailing plaint, 
And men shall hear, through sorrow faint, 

The moan of many a dirge. 

But never shall thine octaves fall 
In grander spheres of use than when 
Thou leadest on the lips of men 

To praise the Lord of All. 

Or when thine anthems clear resound, 
Through scale and space, by clef and bar, 
And bear the uplifted soul afar, 

In soaring waves of sound. 

Keep thou thy gifts, as sacred types, 
O organ tones, of timbre clear, 
And long may men, rejoicing, hear, 

The music of thy pipes. 



June i, 1909. 



gsnoi 



TO ROSWELL T. SPENCER 

A bon voyage, on his making an European tour. 

Friend; of the kindly face, and snow-white hair, 
Mild be the wind that wafts thee overseas! 
Nor storm nor tempest, waking from his lair, 
Shake the wild wave ; but thine be hours that please : 
While from thy ship the smoke-domes backward lie, 
Like inky cloudlets stretched across the sky. 
And thou wilt see strange lands: thy journey make 
By mountain peak; or vale; or placid lake; 
Through park or gallery. But where thy feet be set; 
About the courts of mosque or minaret; 
Whether by city, or by plain it be, 
There shall my soul be in thy company: 
My thought e'er rest on thy receding sail, 
And o'er the farthest Ocean bid thee, Hail. 



September 24th, 1909. 



W^ 



395 



'LIKE AS A CITY SET ON AN HILL' 



Poem read at the Dedication of the Masonic Orphans' Home at 
Batesville, Arkansas, September 30th, 1909. 



Like as a City set on an hill, 

With a destiny wide in the world to fulfill: 

Like as a light that shineth down, 

From the topmost height of a mountain crown: 

Like as a radiance seen afar 

In the distant gleam of a shimmering star: 

So is this House in its vesture here: 

So shows its promise, fair and clear: 

So shines its lofty purpose, when 

It stands a beacon seen of men. 

Full long hath the wailing of Want been known ; 
And Misery hath breathed in a broken moan; 
Full long hath Need, with tears, besought 
Surcease from the woes of Suffering brought: 
Till last in the hearts of men, refined 
By the Spirit of Love for the human kind, 
Hath come the high desire to bless 
The Strength of help unto helplessness. 
Like the voice that spake out of Gallilee: 
Suffer ye these to come unto me. 

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"like as a city set on an hill" 397 

Ah me, if the great ones passed away 

Can look from their realms of endless day, 

And see us standing where they stood, 

With an upward reach to achieve the Good: 

Ah then, believe me, well may rise 

A kindling light in their spirit eyes; 

A thrill of keenest joy; as when 

Some great deed lights the souls of men. 

And theirs the Master's saying be: 

As ye gave unto these, so ye gave unto me. 

Ah, Spirit of Mercy, thou daughter of Love, 

Issuing from the All-Father above, 

Come and replenish our feeble days 

With a sweetness in words, and a kindness in ways. 

O spirit of Charity, here do thou rest, 

And teach that the Gift and the giving are blest: 

That not a kind act shall unfruitful remain; 

Not a cup of cold water be given in vain: 

That not even the least of these of today, 

Shall fade from the Father's care away. 

And long may these walls we dedicate 

Stand in their strength as the years abate; 

And may yon roof forever clasp 

Enduring power within its grasp. 

Long may they shelter in the fold 

Whatever helpless Need may hold: 

And as the sum of our hopes and fears 

Stands thus complete in the flow of years, 

Be this its lesson our whole live through; 

In what measure ye mete, it be meted to you. 




ADIOS 

Poem read at Banquet, Savannah, Georgia, November 12, 1909, at 
Triennial of General Grand Chapter Royal Arch Masons and General 
Grand Council of Royal and Select Masters of the United States. 

Low coast where the white tide, flowing free, 
Rolls in from the deeps of the Eastern Sea; 
And where yon thin gray clouds decline 
Along by the far horizon line: 
Here by thy sandy marge I stray 
As I watch the close of an Autumn day, 
And I pause awhile as the breezes sigh, 
Ere I say to thy scenes: Adios. Good bye. 

It is days we have seen the light winds toss 
In the long festoons of the Spanish moss; 
It is pleasant days we have wondering seen 
How the liveoak lifts its leaves of green. 
It is days we have seen how the palm and the pine, 
And the grand magnolias, gleam and shine: 
And deeper the gleam as the day draws nigh, 
When their leaves shall whisper : Goodbye. Goodbye. 

Right hearty hath been thy royal cheer, 
O olden City that gathereth here; 
Right keen hath been our interest wound 
About thine old historic ground. 



398 



adios 399 

And Park and plaisance, path and street, 
That echoed in turn to the passing feet, 
Shall each in a kind remembrance lie, 
When our lips have breathed: Adios. Goodbye. 

Right well, indeed, O Comrades, thus 
Hath been thy welcoming unto us. 
And surely could no kindlier be 
Than thy boundless hospitality. 
And the joy of parted friends restored, 
With the newer friends at our festal board, 
Hath the only clouds that above us lie, 
That all to soon comes our sad, Goodbye. 

Ah, Comrades, there rings in the sum of things 
This keen regret that the moment brings; 
That back of all mingling the lesson lies, 
That Life is a making and breaking of ties* 
So out of the joy of the passing day, 
Let each one unto his neighbor say, 
With a grasp of the hand, and a mist in the eye: 
Adieu. Adios. Goodbye. Goodbye. 




COLRAINE 
A Song 



Dedicated to Savannah Companions and Friends in memory of a 
pleasant day spent "Under the Oaks at Colraine" at the Triennial in 
November, 1909. 



Words and Mu6ic by the Author. 



Gray and ghostly hang thy branches by the river, O 
Colraine ; 
Where the spreading groves of live-oak stately grow; 
And the Autumn winds are sighing through thy mosses, 
O Colraine; 
Like a note of tenderest music, breathing soft and low. 

REFRAIN. 

Soft and low; soft and low, 

Note of tenderest music, breathing soft and low. 

The Autumn winds are sighing through thy mosses, 

O Colraine; 
Like a note of tenderest music, breathing soft and low. 



400 



COLRAINE 401 



And my thought is backward turning as the evening 
twilight glows 

Awhile, O Colraine lonely, unto thee; 
And that City of Palmettos with its haven quaint and old, 

Beside the wide Savannah sweeping to the sea. 

REFRAIN. 

To the sea; to the sea, 

Beside the wide Savannah, sweeping to the sea. 
That city of Palmettos, with its haven quaint and old, 
Beside the wide Savannah sweeping to the sea. 

III. 

And I seem to see its beauty glowing fairer than the day, 

As I look adown the seasons yet to be; 
While the Autumn sunset lingers in the purple of the sky, 

Oh, blessed is their memory coming back to me. 

REFRAIN. 

Back to me; back to me, 

Blessed is their memory coming back to me; 

While the Autumn sunset lingers in the purple of the 

sky, 
Oh, blessed is their memory coming back to me. 



K§»*tfES 



THE TOILER 

Bowed of frame, and hard of hand; 

Staid face, in wrinkled lines revealed; 
At eve I see him resting stand, 

The patient tiller of the field. 

Whose life flows on in settled ways, 
With year by year no varying change; 

Nor e'er for him ambition strays, 
Beyond his narrow-bounded range. 

His thoughts, by scant horizon bound, 
But uneventful things enclose; 

His daily care a barren round 
Of labor and of dull repose. 

Yet nobler than the type of man, 
Of wider grasp and higher soul, 

Who idles out the living span, 
In drifting to an aimless goal. 

Of force to serve the human kind, 
Yet in the power rejoicing not; 

Inert ; in whom the vacant mind 

And stalwarth brawn doth rust and clot. 



402 



THE TOILER 403 

Far better that our path below, 

Through Effort's endless realm should press, 
Than that the feet should lag and go 

Through vapid tracts of nothingness. 

Toil-born are we. No changeless skies 

Above an unvexed lot are cast; 
No ship that through the Ocean flies, 

But strains the cordage and the mast. 

Toil-born. But better we should hold 
The sphere of labor fused with gloom, 

Than that the empty life unrolled 

Should hear the thunder-shocks of doom; 

The Voice, that shall in judgement be; 

Depart! My gift hath been abused. 
The talent that I gave to ye, 

Lo, ye return to me unused! 

While to the toiler, meek and grave, 
In tone and accent soothing clear; 
Over the little that I gave, 

Thou hast been faithful. Enter here. 



MISSOURI 

Written for a State Song for Missouri. 

I. 

Gem of the West, where the mountains rise 
Grandly beneath thine azure skies; 
Thine be the boast of the fertile plain, 
And the valleys, rich with the ripened grain: 
Thine be the wealth where Commerce lays 
Her tribute through thy water-ways: 
And ever thine, in triumph, sweep 
Thy mighty fleets to the heaving deep. 

REFRAIN 

Sons of Missouri, firm and grand, 
Ye are the strength of the Motherland. 
And by thy sturdy worth may ye 
Her fame exalt from sea to sea. 

II. 

Wise in her Councils: Mother of men 
Great in the scope of the Nation's ken: 
Bearing her banner high unfurled, 
A beacon seen of all the World: 
Thy gifts, Missouri, many and great, 
Thy riches and thy glorious State, 
All, yet, in sterling worth, give place 
To the Mothers of thy hardy race. 



404 



MISSOURI 405 



REFRAIN 

Mothers and wives, O holy band, 
Ye are the pride of the Motherland. 
And through thy gifts of grace may ye 
Her fame exalt from sea to sea. 

in. 

Fair lie thy meadows, spreading wide; 

And rich thy mines on every side: 

Fair are thy landscapes, gleaming bright; 

Thine orchards basking in the light: 

But greater yet thy treasures rare, 

Where radiant Beauty shineth fair: 

Yea, greater seem thy gifts by far, 

In the types thy sons and daughters are. 

REFRAIN 

Missouri's children all, ye stand 

As gems in the crown of the Motherland. 

O ever may thy loyalty 

Her fame exalt from sea to sea. 




HAPPY HEARTS A-MAYING 
A Song 

i. 

Bright is the sky and the breezes blow 
Light from the East where the cloudlets, low, 
A fleecy vail, through the azure go, 

Like a mist o'er the mountains staying; 
And here by the woodland, rich and green, 
Are lads and lassies, mirthful, seen; 
And merrier group hath never been 

Q* happy hearts a-Maying. 

II. 

Full is the leaf of the maple tree, 

And the long grass waves in a seeming glee; 

The daisy nods in the breezes free, 

And the cedar boughs are swaying: 
The sward is set with jewels rare; 
The hawthorn's pink and white are there: 
And all the world seems fresh and fair, 

To happy hearts a-Maying. 

406 



HAPPY HEARTS A-MAYING 407 



III. 

O flower-crowned with bloom and wreath; 
How fair the hours that sped beneath 
Those golden days in mead and heath; 

As Memory backward straying, 
Brings once again that lightsome hour, 
Rich with the wealth of leaf and flower. 
Give me again the magic power 

In happy hearts a-Maying. 




OH, MOTHERLAND, MISSOURI 

Written for a State Song for Missouri. 



O Motherland, Missouri, in love and fervency 
Thy loyal children gather singing praises unto thee: 
Thine is the land of Plenty; thy wealth beyond compare: 
Thy sons as brave as Earth e'er gave; thy daughters true 
and fair. 

REFRAIN. 

O Motherland, Missouri ; peace ever be with thee. 
My heart is thine, O land of mine, wherever I may be. 

II. 

Fair lie thy faithful valleys; thy rugged mountain sides. 
Broad seem thy grassy meadows, where gentle life abides. 
And Thrift makes here her harbor; and rich Abundance 

stays 
With the fleets that sweep to the heaving deep, adown 

thy water ways. 

REFRAIN. 

O Motherland, Missouri, peace ever be with thee. 
My heart is thine, O home of mine, wherever I may be. 



408 



OH, MOTHERLAND, MISSOURI 409 



III. 

Go forward, O Missouri, in thy majestic grace: 

Thy greatness and thine honor filling yet a grander space. 

March on, O loved Missouri, of the Western World the 

gem, 
And wear as now upon thy brow a jeweled diadem. 

REFRAIN. 

O Motherland, Missouri, peace ever be with thee. 
My heart is thine, O love of mine, wherever I may be. 




THE OLD BLACK MAMMY OF THE SOUTH 

Slave: of a system past and gone 

Like a darkening cloud from the sky withdrawn: 

Slave of a lowly lot and part; 

Yet rich endowed with the tender heart: 

There clings in the Southron's sympathy 

A kindly thought, black mammy, for thee. 

Ah, times in the far-off childhood days, 
Long faded away in a misty haze: 
When the tears, and the petty cares of the day, 
Were gently soothed, and smoothed away: 
When Sorrow left no sting nor trace, 
Because of this serf, of the sable face. 

And what though conflict filled the day, 
And the men of defense were far away: 
What though the chance of the passing hour, 
Tempted the use of a terrible power: 
Yet the humble slave, with a touch of pride, 
Stood faithful still at the master's side. 

And last when the deeds in the body done, 

Shall come to be judged by the all-wise one, 

The scales shall tip and low descend, 

With the good deeds done by the children's friend. 

And there in the joy of eternal light, 

Though her hue be dark, shall her soul be white. 



410 




TO THE CRAFT OF RAVENSWOOD 

At Chicago, on a visit to them, August 8th, 1910. 

Bound by the bond of a great degree 
Am I, O Brethren, unto ye. 
By the strength of a vow whose ties extend 
Like the links of a chain that hath no end. 
Bound by the threefold cords that cling 
With the native force of a living thing: 
Where the wide-extended Nations bring 

Our holy Brotherhood. 
So here tonight I seem to stand 
Not as strange in a stranger land ; 
But the rather as one who comes to clasp 
A Brother's hand in a Brother's grasp: 
To pledge anew the friendship held 
By the three wise Kings in the days of eld: 
As a traveller might step on his native shore: 
To be like a son at his Mother's door: 
Simply to stand in the ranks; — not more: 

O Craft of Ravenswood. 

For into my vision there comes a day; 
In the gathering Past not far away, 
Filled to the full with a sense of pride 
Awakened to live and long abide. 
Forever there comes before mine eyes 



411 



412 TO THE CRAFT AT RAVENSWObU 

A scene whose memory never dies; 
When favoring Fortune cast her prize, 

And my soul was alight and cheered: 
When out of your aid, O Brethren here, 
There came the boon that my life holds dear: 
That sheds on all the hours that be 
A light that ever shines for me. 
And down through the sweep of the years that fly, 
Shall that light still live while the days go by. 
As the round sun reddens the Western sky, 

When its beams have disappeared. 




FRATER, VALE 

John Corson Smith, Obit, December 31st, 19 10. 

Strong of heart, and high of mind: 
Filled with the love of the human kind: 
Great in the grace of the kindly thought 
From the depths of a generous nature brought: 
Our hearts, O Frater beloved well, 
Beat low as we breathe a sad farewell. 

Long, through the rush of the living days, 
Hath the love of thy Fraters shone always. 
As a pillar that's grounded firm and sure, 
But the firmer stands as the years endure; 
So shall thy fame its tenure hold; 
Nor its freshness lapse as the years unfold. 

And into thy walls, O Temple wide, 

Where crowded the throngs from side to side: 

And where by the sleeping clay there grouped 

Full many a head in sorrow drooped: 

No higher, grander, life drew near, 

Than the life that closed with the closing year. 

Farewell, O Friend! Long may the cheer 

Thy presence gave yet linger here! 

And ever unto us who stay 

By that shore from which thou hast sailed away. 

The memory of thy merit dwell 

Like a light on distant seas! Farewell! 

413 



A TOAST TO ARKANSAS 

Delivered at a Banquet at Fort Smith, May 25th, 191 1. 

The sunlight shines nowhere so bright, 

As here in Arkansas: 
Nor beams the moon with softer light, 

Than here in Arkansas. 
No fairer vision greets the eye, 
Than where her peaceful valleys lie; 
Or where a river rushes by, 

Down here in Arkansas. 

Her fertile plains lie broad and fair, 

Down here in Arkansas: 
With fruitful harvests everywhere, 

Down here in Arkansas. 
Why need I more her wealth relate? 
Her sons and daughters make the State. 
God give us men to keep her great, 

Down here in Arkansas. 



414 



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And here we raise, in its grandeur and beauty 
This stone unto those who, brave and sedate 

Unfalteringly trod the broad highway of Duty 

Unto Death and the grave, at the call of the State. 

— At Camp Shaver 




AT CAMP SHAVER 

The unveiling of the Monument to the Capital Guards at the Con- 
federate Reunion in Little Rock. 

Tents on the slope of an emerald swarding: 
Crosses and bars on the flags that fly: 
Banners awave with a curious wording: 
Grizzled and gray are the passers by. 

Here, under oaks with the centuries hoary, 
Gather the tottering forms of the few 
Left from the times of legend and story, 
Who marched to the field when the bugle blew. 

Aye, under these selfsame branches spreading, 
Once gathered an army, proud and great; 
And from these slopes, not in fear nor dreading, 
Went the country's manhood, with souls elate. 

Ah, that was a moment crucial and trying: 
Ah, that was anguish sore and hard; 
When, timed in step and with banners flying, 
The flower of the City went out with the Guard. 

And firmly they held, from the first to the ending, 
Though many a conflict was marked with the slain; 
From the ambush of Shiloh, with courage unbending, 
To the murderous volleys of Franklin's plain. 



415 



416 AT CAMP SHAVER 

And worthily here, in its grandeur and beauty, 
We honor the fallen who, brave and sedate, 
Unfalteringly trod the broad highway of Duty, 
Unto death and the grave, at the call of the State. 

For those were days, now happily faded, 
When the hearts of men beat high and hot: 
When a fierce turmoil the Nation pervaded, 
And the gentler teachings were heeded not. 

When the sky grew dark with a muttering thunder, 
That broke o'er the land in a tide of woe: 
When the bulwarks built by the Past went under, 
And that was fifty years ago. 

Now all is Peace. The land reposes 
Free from the stress of alarms or fears, 
And Time walks on o'er a pathway o| roses, 
Serenely after these fifty years. 

And long may the life of the Land united 
Grow stronger yet as the seasons fly: 
And her fame shine out, like a beacon lighted, 
While countless centuries hurry by. 



May 17th, 191 1. 



ALBANIA 



Cry, O hardy mountaineers: 

Cry, till a world, attendant, hears; 

And shruddering turns from the cruel work 

Wrought by the hands of the murderous Turk. 

What? Shall no voice be raised to stay 
The outrage done each passing day? 
Shall no strong arm be stretched to build 
Some crowned Republic, Freedom-filled? 

Ah me! That out of times like these, 
With the preachment of peace in every breeze, 
The circled Nations, careless, see 
The Ottoman's vile barbarity. 

See the smoke of homesteads, manifold, 
In a cloud, accusing, upward rolled : 
See slaughtered babe and dame between, 



Of old the Christian martyr died 

By the ravenous beast, or the stake beside: 

Today a like oblation stands, 

Where the martyr dies in the Moslem lands. 



417 



418 ALBANIA 

Courage yet, O mountaineers: 

Brave to the death; devoid of fears: 

Some Chieftain yet shall rise, adored, 

To strike with the might of Iskander's sword. 

Shall come with power, and grandly be 
The force to set Albania free: 
And see her standard wide unfurled: 
Aligned with the Nations of the world. 



July, 



AT THE MARION 

Low notes of the flute, in a tremolo fading, 
That rise and fall in a cadence sweet; 
Clear tones of the viol, and blare of the tuba, 
That waken the rhythm of dancing feet: 

High lights in the fair-lit hallway, shading 
To gold and brown on the tinted wall: 
What vision, of more than regal splendor, 
Shines there where thy floods of brightness fall! 

Pillars, — gray-veined — with the beauty of roses; 
With the long festoons, and the garlands rare: 
Thy sheen in a scene resplendent; but fairer 
Is the beauty of woman, brightening there. 

Oh the reeling scene, with the floating of laces, 
The shimmer of satin, the glinting of pearl, 
As down the long Hall, to a languorous measure, 
O'er its glossy flooring the dancers whirl; 

With the flush of the cheek at the praises spoken, 
The light of the eye at the merry quip: 
The saucy toss of the head replying; 
Or the laughter pealed from the ruby lip. 



419 



420 AT THE MARION 

O golden Youth, in Man or Woman, 

How glorious is thy grace and way! 

How warms the heart, and the pulse-beat quickens, 

Where pure Enjoyment holds her sway! 

O long endure, in strength and fulness, 
To deeply drain, ere the eye grows dim, 
A draught from the cup of Innocent Pleasure; 
And of wise Life, filled to the beaker's brim. 



December 21st, 



ON PRESENTING A LAMBSKIN APRON 

Light and white are its leathern folds; 

And a priceless lesson its texture holds. 

Symbol it is, as the years increase, 

Of the paths that lead through the fields of Peace. 

Type it is of the higher sphere, 

Where the deeds of the body, ended here, 

Shall one by one the by-way be 

To pass the gates of Eternity. 

Emblem it is of a life intense, 

Held aloof from the world of sense: 

Of the upright walk, and the lofty mind, 

Far from the dross of Earth inclined. 

Sign it is that he who wears 

Its sweep unsullied, about him bears 

That which should be to mind and heart, 

A set reminder of his art. 

So may it ever bring to thee 
The high resolves of Purity. 
Its spotless field of shining white 
Serve to guide thy steps aright: 
Thy daily life, in scope and plan, 
Be that of the strong and upright man. 
And signal shall the honor be 
Unto those who wear it worthily. 



421 



422 ON PRESENTING A LAMBSKIN APRON 

Receive it thus to symbolize 

Its drift, in the life that before thee lies. 

Badge as it is of a great degree, 

Be it chart and compass unto thee. 



March 19th, 191. 




OFF THE GRAND BANKS OF 
NEWFOUNDLAND 

Has Courage fled from the hearts of men? 
Is Bravery out of our being cast? 
Does the Hero live no longer, when 
Some peril bursts like a roaring blast? 

Answer, O stars of the moonless skies: 
And ye, O waves of the frozen coast; 
Where the giant liner stricken lies, 
And the eighty score of lives were lost; 

When the life-boats, lowered, bore away 
The helpless throng, whom the stronger send 
Where the rescue-craft draws down from the Bay: 
Then stand to await the impending end. 

O ship that sped through the icy air, 
Where none thy sudden end predict, 
No higher, finer, deed was there, 
In the ruin wrought by that derelict! 

How weak is the Wisdom of Man below! 
He buildeth with pain and limitless cost: 
The Almighty but blows with His breath, and, lo, 
Man's highest creation is shattered and lost! 



423 



424 OFF THE GRAND BANKS GF NEWFOUNDLAND 

And over their graves in the reedy deep; 

Over their sepulchers, wave-refrained, 

Forever shall Glory her vigil keep, 

For that the weak went safe, while the strong remained 

Remained to leap in the arms of Death, 

When the quick waves gathered, greedy and blind: 

And noble is he who delivereth 

His life for the life of the human kind! 

Honor the heroes, great or small, 
Who rose to their might in the gathering gloom, 
When the air-waves carried the danger-call, 
And the good ship plunged to her fateful doom; 

And, thousand fathom deep, reclines, 

Where Ocean's shells and tangle grow: 

Where the North Star over the wild wave shines, 

And the Grand Banks slope to the sea below. 

April 21st. 1912. 



THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH 

An Allegory. 
&+> 

A Knight sedate, by a frowning gate 
Stood warder till the light grew dim. 
But ere the day had died away 
A weary searcher came to him. 

"What wouldest thou, of the furrowed brow, 
That comest thus with bended head?" 
Then lifting eye, with weary sigh ; 

"I seek for truth," the searcher said. 

"For truth? Then peace. Thy journey cease. 
In this long Hall it lies indeed." 
Then throwing wide the gates aside: 

"Enter; and what thou findest, read." 

In the searcher stept, and trembling crept, 
And there on wall, or shelf, or floor: 
Or piled away, in order lay 
The endless tomes of musty lore. 

And groping days through darkened ways 
The searcher sought in frenzied mood. 
Now here, now there; and everywhere, 
The phantom form of truth pursued. 



425 



426 THE SEARCH FOR TRUTH 

And last, through years of hopes and fears 
And flitting seasons left behind; 
Through weary hours that tried his powers 
In endless search, what did he find? 

A part of Truth had he found forsooth 
When Age had long supplanted Youth: 
But for all, he searched from shore to shore, 
With her image flying on before: 
And he still shall search forevermore. 



August 10th, 1912. 



SEWICKLEY HEIGHTS 

A Beautiful Suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. 

White clouds that lightly drift and swim 
Above the mountain's rugged rim: 
A light that pales and glows again, 
In floods of sunshine after rain: 
The level thoroughfares that lie 
In curves and courses stretching by 
The gleaming vistas, long withdrawn 
Through leagues of green in velvet lawn: 
The added miles of shaven sod; 
The hills that glow with goldenrod: 
With Autumn, and her mellowing light, 
In flower and foliage shining bright: 
The layered steeps that stand alone, 
Deep fissured with eternal stone: 
The mountain summit's broken crown 
In mien majestic frowning down: 
The tangled screens that gleam and shine, 
With barberry and Madeira Vine: 
All this comes back as memory strays 
At random through the misty haze 
That gathers with enchanted lights 
About thee, O Sewickley Heights. 

427 



428 SEWICKLEY HEIGHTS 

Ah me, what glorious end ensues 
When Art and Nature grandly fuse; 
With Wealth, and Taste, and Skill, between, 
To frame thy more than magic scene. 
How clear defined thy features are 
That glide beside the whirling car! 
The stately homes that crown the rise: 
The grand expanse that greets the eyes: 
With bloom and leaflet heaped in banks, 
Or straightly drawn in ordered ranks: 
With rows of unextinguished lights, 
That line thy lanes, Sewickley Heights . 

Right well the savage christened thee 
Sweet water; pleasant land to see: 
With streams that glint and gently flow, 
In murmuring channels far below: 
And we who fill their vacant place, 
Successors of a vanished race, 
See gladly how thy name unites 
With Beauty, O Sewickley Heights. 

O may my lingering vision rest 
Once more upon thy flaming crest: 
Once more behold thy glorious sun 
Sink slowly down ere day is done: 
Drink in once more thy scenes that lie 
Like squares of woven tapestry: 
And rest amid the raptured sights 
Thou holdest, O Sewickley Heights. 



September 14th, 1912. 



■- t P A VAMA 



;*.^£C3> 



Waves of the wide Atlantic, sweeping 
In grandeur down, untamed and free; 
With thy tides that ebb and flow eternal, 
To meet and greet thy sister sea: 

Waves of the deep Pacific, rearing 

Thy whited crests by the sunset's verge, 

Flow on; henceforward and forever 

In the monster furrow to blend and merge. 

For Man, with the might of the Mind, supernal, 
Hath wrought a miracle greater yet; 
And armed with the craft of a higher Science, 
Hath rended the bounds that Nature set. 

He hath touched the streams and turned their courses 
He hath levelled the cliffs to build upon : 
He hath smoothed the hills and felled the forest; 
And turned the chasm hither and yon: 

Till her granite side-walls, lofty and towering, 
Loom strongly out from her ponderous gates: 
Beside whose base the thunderous Ocean 
In safe embargo laps and waits. 



429 



430 AT PANAMA 

He hath seized Disease and throttled its venom: 
He hath conquered the pests of bog and fen: 
He hath ridded the Earth of a deadly climate, 
And fitted the strait for the haunts of men. 

Ah, greatest stroke in Time's long counting! 
Ah, bold Achievement's best display! 
To change the course of the World of sudden, 
And set the tides in a newer way; 

To turn the hands of Progress forward 
By a thousand years, and free of strife; 
To touch with a magic wand and waken 
The Island-Isthmus into life. 

And who shall reck, as the ages lengthen, 
The wondrous change of the open door: 
In the tides of Commerce intercoastal 
That shall flow through its portals evermore. 

And who but shall give to the Nation honor 

For her lofty zeal since the scheme began : 

For the minds that planned, and the treasure that 

builded, 
As she altered the World from the older plan. 



October ioth, 1913. 




A CHRISTMAS WISH 

Light in the hills that skirt the West 
As the sun goes down with a fiery crest: 
Light in the streaks of the amber sky, 
Where the slanting sunbeams fade and die: 
And a softer light in the Eastern screen, 
Where the pale moon sails in a silvery sheen: 
Light in the farthest star that shines; 
And light in my heart as the day declines. 

And what be my wish of the Gracious Power 
That guides our footsteps every hour? 
What be my wish as the season brings 
Its sense of cheer in men and things? 
What shall my meek petition claim, 
Out of all the things my thought could name 
When the joy of Christmastide is born 
In the precious gift of the sacred morn? 



431 



432 A CHRISTMAS WISH 

I do not ask for store of gold; 
Nor sigh for treasures manifold: 
I do not ask for hoarded pelf, 
Nor rank nor empire for myself: 
I only ask that grace may be 
On those whom God has given me; 
And only for enough I pray, 
To serve to keep the wolf away. 

I pray for the gift of the generous mind 
A wider love of the human kind: 
Reliance, never growing less: 
And Patience under storm and stress: 
A stronger brain and frame to lay 
The problems that beset my way; 
But most of all my spirit asks: 
God make me equal to my tasks. 



December 25th, 1913. 



AT THE RUBY WEDDING 

Of Judge and Mrs. Henry C. Caldwell, March 25th, 1914. 

Fair be the time, O friends, I ween, 

Though sixty years have grown between 

That far off date of joy profound, 

When thy two lives were linked and bound. 

Fair be the time, as Memory strays 

Across a waste of faded days, 

Where one by one the Seasons fast 

Flew on into the eternal Past; 

Leaving as they sped away 

The record of each passing day, 

In joys and sorrows: hopes and fears; 

The fruitage of the fleeting years. 

And here, as now we greet ye, when 

These sixty years have lapsed and been, 

And see ye hearty; — hale and strong, 

In joys that unto life belong; 

And see the gracious kindly air, 

That long has marked ye, married pair, 

Thy presence, with its sunny gleams, 

A lingering benediction seems. 

And fair be all that the years contain, 
In what of days to ye remain. 
May all of rugged health be thine: 
And all be joy as the years decline: 
The joy of friends unchanging be; 
The joy of kindred loving thee: 
Even as Evening, fading slow, 
Leaves her softest light below. 



433 



£*i& 



% 



A BRIDAL TRIBUTE 

This hour, O daughter, last of three, 

Is sacred to festivity. 

Here joy and laughter blended dwell, 

And here are friends to wish thee well: 

As now thou standest, happy bride, 

With him, thy chosen mate, beside; 

And all is fair and bright; but we, 

Thy parents, who have nourished thee: 

And all who have about thee grown: 

Who through the years thy life hath known 

Were with thy daily walk and way, 

Will miss thee more than words can say. 

For thou wert as a shining light 

To make thy household glad and bright: 

Wise of counsel ; deft of skill 

To shape the ways of Art at will: 

The dance ; the game ; and more than these, 

The tact to teach ; to aid and please : 

The gift of Music and of Song; 

All these, and else, to thee belong: 

And as now the time assigned has come 

That thou goest unto other home, 

Where newer duties thee await, 

Our house is left us desolate. 



434 



A BRIDAL TRIBUTE 435 

Live long, O daughter, last of three: 
Our fondest wishes are with thee! 
May Fate her kindest smile display, 
And halcyon days be thine alway! 



April 1 8th, 1914. 




THE CENTURY OF PEACE 

Kinsmen; in thine Island home, 

Where Ocean's thunders never cease : 
Clasp hands across the flying foam, 

For this, our Century of Peace: 
Clasp hands, and seal the sacred vow 

To stand for ages yet to be: 
Eternal friendship then as now, 

To mark the People's Jubilee. 

Strong race, akin in blood and tongue, 

Thou standest as thy Fathers stood. 
Far Nations when the World was young, 

Began thine iron hardihood. 
And thou hast fared in weal and will, 

Through those who wore the Royal robe 
Thy borders ever widening still ; 

Thy drum-beat through the open globe. 

We too, thy scions, young and strong, 

Hold eager hands with face aglow: 
Forgetting all the strife and wrong, 

That died a hundred years ago: 
And pray no day may Time beget 

That sees the light of Peace abate : 
Nor wrath remove the weeds that met 

Above the grave of Ancient Hate. 



436 



THE CENTURY OF PEACE 437 

Forgetting how the warships fought, 

With bellying sails that caught the breeze; 
For then no demon-missives wrought 

The work of murder under seas : 
Forgetting how the muskets flashed : 

The bombs, that trailed their arcs of light : 
The squadrons; as they madly clashed, 

In blinding fury of the fight. 

And, — Oh the pity of the times — 

Were word, as now, sent flashing through 
The uttermost of alien climes 

Within the round world's widest view, 
Then had not Valor stormed in vain 

The ragged works where Jackson stood, 
To meet defeat: nor Chalmette's plain 

Be drenched with idly-wasted blood. 

Dread offering to the Fiend of Pain, 

The sacrifice of blood and tears! 
Pray God the sword undrawn remain 

Through lapse of countless hundred years: 
That down the Ages' lengthened flight, 

The World may glide in gentler ways; 
Suffused as with enchanted light 

From miracles of these latter days! 

For vast, O Century of Peace, 

Hath been thy growth and thine advance. 
Fair Knowledge, in her wide increase, 

Hath seen the fruits of Truth enhance! 



438 THE CENTURY OF PEACE 

Seen Science, guided by thy hand, 
Her march of high emprise begin : 

Seen through the stretches of the land, 
The day of marvels ushered in. 

The message spoken through the air: 

The voice in whirling disc revealed : 
The life that moves in reel and flare : 

The wings of aviation field: 
The power-cage that speeds afar: 

The lightning-flash, in thought unfurled: 
The steamer, and the railway car: — 

The treasures of this wonder-world. 

And what? Remain there yet no plans 

How Man's invention still may play? 
No Vision unto him who scans 

The distant prospect stretched away? 
Is this the end ? The topmost height ? 

Nay; a wider sweep the vista fills: 
For ours is but the opening light, 

The morning breaking o'er the hills. 

And they who gaze with insight clear 

When Ages hence have lapsed and gone, 
May look from their exalted sphere 

And hold us pigmies, toiling on: 
May find our best of small avail : 

Our measured strength be less and less; 
Our chief achievements shrink and fail, 

And dwindle into littleness. 



THE CENTURY OF PEACE 439 

So fold the flags forevermore: 

And hush for aye the pulsing drum: 
Let Peace abide from shore to shore, 

Through all the ages yet to come. 
We hail thee, Mother of our race ; 

We, in whom Pride the boast begets, 
That the sun, in journeying on apace, 

Upon our banner never sets. 

And let the flag of azure field, 

With triple crosses interlaced, 
Be twined behind the shining shield, 

Whereon the Nation's Arms are placed: 
And ever as the colors fly, 

The double folds in concord be: 
The ancient Kingdom's standard by 

The starry banner of the free. 



1914. 



ARMAGEDDON 

Red are the skies ; and crimson red 

Are the fields, with their heaps of countless dead : 

Red is the fringe of copse and wood, 

Where the War-dogs slake their thirst for blood. 

And redder yet has the sunset grown, 

From ruined Cities, overthrown. 

As the Old World Nations, grappling, close 

In a strife to the death, with hated foes. 

Oh, cursed be the Kings who prize 

A war as their highest exercise ! 

And cursed be the minds that plan 

To slay or maim their fellowman ! 

Oh, cursed be the crafts that fly 

With murder, dropped from a cloudless sky! 

Cursed be War and Treachery! 

And cursed be Diplomacy! 

Has the World gone back, in her hateful rage, 

As unto some far, barbaric, age: 

When the torch and slaughter ; crime and strife, 

Were the pastimes of a brutal life? 

Shame on the hands that backward sent 

The course of the World's development: 

And, mocking at Humanity, 

Have made of the Christian life a lie! 

Of old the Christly message ran: 

"Peace on Earth ; good-will to Man." 

And through the years that His realm hath stood, 

He preached the creed of Doing Good. 

440 



ARMAGEDDON 441 

Alas, that in this latest day, 
Its highest good is shorn away, 
And all the gentle grace it had, 
By frenzied Rulers, battle-mad. 

Courage yet, O drooping heart: 
Rise up and fill a stronger part. 
God's finger-prints are clearly seen, 
Laid here and there in wrath between. 
He will not suffer Wrong to be 
Forever in ascendency: 
But doth to each transgressor say: 
"Vengeance is mine; I will repay." 

But over the war-cloud, rolling low ; 
And above the tide of tears and woe : 
And through the blight of harrowing Fear, 
His higher purpose shineth clear. 
For like the light of the opening day, 
His hand shall sweep the mists away, 
And over that hour supreme shall span, 
Blest Peace; and The Brotherhood of Man. 

God grant it so: And grant we may 
Soon usher in that gracious day, 
When men shsll turn to War no more, 
And Peace abide from shore to shore: 
When States be ruled by kindly thought, 
And sword and spear be held for naught : 
And evermore among us dwell 
The reign of Prince Immanuel. 

September, 1914. 



AT OLD KINSALE 



&&&**&** 



Was it War, out there in the Irish Sea, 
When a trade-ship, sailing placidly, 
Of a sudden felt in her hold below, 
The staggering stroke of a deadly blow? 

Was it War, when over her slanting sides 
There was hurled headlong in the seething tides, 
Full sixty score, or more, I ken, 
Of women and babes and helpless men ? 

Was it War, to secretly lie in wait, 
While the quarry sailed to her fearful fate, 
And then, unwarning, to strike the blow 
That laid the giant liner low: 

Without one instant's thought to save 
Or list or crew from the gulphing wave, 
Ere the fatal bolt was sped that drew 
A cry of horror the whole world through ? 

Ah, yes ; it was War. Such War I know 
As is waged by that inhuman foe, 
That gloats o'er the scene as he speeds away, 
And makes for the deed a holiday ! 



442 



AT OLD KIXSALE 443 

Ah yes, it was War: — we are vauntingly told, 
To slay alike the young and the old : 
But Humanity's voice, on every side, 
Proclaims it Murder; the whole world wide. 

Of old was Honor grandly won, 
With ship for ship and gun for gun: 
But not with Navies stowed away, 
That cower in the harbor quay; 

And steal abroad, unseen, to see 
Some victim, sleeping quietly, 
Then strike a deadly stroke, like these — 
The cold assassins of the seas. 

But the arm of God is long and strong, 

And reacheth far to avenge a wrong: 

And the Nation that did this dastard crime, 

Will He strike to the earth, in His own good time. 

May nth, 191 5. 



AUX DRAPEAUX 
(To the Colors!) 

Flag of France, of kindred hue, 

That wavest wide, her borders through, 

Once more is ancient friendship sealed; 

As, high-resolved, through sea and field, 

Thy great Republic-Sister draws 

Her gleaming sword in righteous cause, 

To join thine allied flags unfurled, 

And strike for the freedom of the World. 

Flag of France, we hold thee high, 
As type of that Nation's gallantry, 
That bears the brunt of the worst of wars 
Upon her breast of many scars. 
Her soul is unconvict and free 
From the crime of Belgium's misery: 
Her hands bear neither spot nor stain 
For Lusitania's murdered slain: 

Her seas run neither tinged nor red 
With blood in ruthless fashion shed: 
She plrys no part of the skulking foe 
That strikes unseen the deadly blow. 
We hold her high that, grand withal, 
At the Marne she saved her Capital: 
And more, that through her legions hurled, 
At Verdun she saved the threatened World 



444 



AUX DRAPEAUX 445 

Where through her singeing cloak of fire 
She quelled her dastard foemen's ire : 
And at the mouth of her smoking guns 
Swept back the onward rush of the Huns: 
Where through the force of her iron will, 
She held her lines unbroken still: 
And kept, with her serried ranks a-mass, 
Her stern resolve; "They shall not pass.'' 

Flag of England ; and, in fine, 
Of each of the warring allied line, 
We too take up the battle-gage, 
Thrown to us in such wanton rage : 
We, who have stood restrained and long, 
With hearts aflame at grievous wrong: 
Have cast our lot, for good or bad, 
With thy sturdy legions, khaki-clad. 

Ah me ; o'er the tide of blood and woe, 
The purpose of God begins to show 
Its clear-seen meaning gleamed afar, 
When Freedom rose in the land of the Czar 
Clear to be seen when the Nations agree 
In the Peace of the World, that is to be : 
As the hands on the dial move sure, nor slow, 
To the Hohenzollern overthrow. 



446 AUX DRAPEAUX 

God of Battles, hear our cry, 

For Justice and Humanity! 

Full long we held, our plea denied, 

And patient, more than all beside. 

Let now our strength on every hand 

For the Honor of the Nation stand: 

And this our high contention be : 

For Freedom and World-Democracy. 

April 7th, 1917. 



THE CALL 

Save the World for Liberty 

1. 

Strike with the might of Truth and Right, 
O Land of Freedom, fair and bright: 
The Cry that comes across the sea, 
Is of stricken Nations calling thee ! 

Strike down the ranks of guilty Wrong, 
And bid the threatened World be strong! 

2. 
Long have ye stood with plea denied, 
And patient more than all beside: 
Firm have ye stood restrained and long 
With hearts aflame at grievous wrong: 

Draw now thy sword and foremost be 
To save the World for Liberty ! 

3. 
Rise in thy gathered strength; at last 
Thy lot in the scale of Conflict cast: 
And bear afar, in Faith complete, 
The flag that never knew defeat. 

Make thou the weak protected be ; 
And the World be safe for Democracy 1 



447 



448 THE CALL 

4. 

Lo, see the forming Legions fill, 
As the bugle calls o'er dale and hill : 
Rise in thy purpose strong to save, 
And grandly smite by shore and wave ! 

And unto thee the message be 
To save the World for Liberty ! 

May 30th, 1917. 



IN PICARDY 

A Patriotic Son^ 

Music by the Author. 

I have heard the distant thunder of the guns across the 

sea: 
I have seen the smoke of battle in the air: 
I have seen the mighty struggle on the plains of Picardy: 
And my heart is ever with them over there, 

Over there. 
And my prayer to The Almighty — and I make it day by 

day — 
It is that our lines may firm and steady be : 
That the hordes of the Despoiler may be driven far away, 
And the light break o'er the plains of Picardy, 

Picardy. 
For I know the fate of Nations there is hanging by a 

thread, 
As the tide of battle surges to and fro: 
And I know the field is covered with the dying and the 

dead, 
As the dreadful days of conflict come and go, 

Come and go. 
But my faith is still unshaken in the Ruler of the Skies: 
He will still preserve the World for Liberty: 
And o'er the shock of conflict will His Guiding Hand 

arise, 
And God will show His power in Picardy, 

Picardy. 

April 21st, 1918. 

449 



TO LAFAYETTE 



Poem read at the Lafayette Birthday Celebration in Little Rock, Sep- 
tember 5th, 19 1 8. 



Soul of the Soldier, of long ago, 
Look from thy Realm of Light, and know 
That a grateful People holds for thee 
A high and reverent memory; 

For that in time of stress and need, 
Thy hand of Help was held, indeed : 
Thy sturdy Valor stood revealed, 
At Valley Forge and Monmouth Field: 

Alike in Victory or Defeat 
Thy lofty courage shone complete: 
And most when evil hap were thine, 
At Trenton and the Brandywine. 

Today the World is torn afar 
By the thunder-burst of a mighty War: 
And Columbia's sons, a million strong, 
Defend thy native soil from wrong. 

And other millions, brave like these, 
Shall stream, with fervor, overseas; 
To strike, with iron hardihood, 
The Beast that fills the World with blood. 



450 



LAFAYETTE 45 1 

For well he spake, our Chieftain brave, 
When he laid the wreath upon thy grave, 
And said, in Soldier-accents clear ; 
"We've come, O Lafayette. We're here!" 

Aye, come to stand a bulwark when, 
Beside thy gallant Countrymen, 
We battle, with our flag unfurled, 
To save the freedom of the World. 

Soul of the Soldier, look from skies, 
'Neath which our starry emblem flies, 
And see us evening thus the debt 
We owe to France and Lafayette! 

Then mount the guns ; flash forth the brand ; 
Roll up our strength on every hand! 
And foremost may our Legions be, 
In the onward march to Victory! 

Soul of the Soldier, not for naught, 
Thine aid in vacant days was brought. 
Thy name and fame shall never fail; 
For countless ages shall bid thee Hail. 

August ioth, 1918. 



fj* M% 

THE SAILING OF THE FLEET 

North Sea, that stretchest far away 
In many a twist of bight and Bay: 
That readiest out and turnest back 
By the craggy points of the Skager Rack: 

Stretch far away, O Northern Main : 

But never shall thy waves again 

Bear up such token of defeat, 

As the sailing forth of the German Fleet ! 

In a lengthened line that breaks the gaze 
Through leagues on leagues of waterways, 
Are Battleships and Cruiser seen, 
Beside assassin Submarine! 

A Fleet that with pretended zeal, 
Yet cowered in the Harbor Kiel ! 
A Fleet that after boast and brag, 
Yet only sailed to strike her flag! 

Huge symbol of a guilty Power, 
That seized her own selected hour, 
And plunged her sword, with ruthless art, 
In Civilization's pulsing heart! 



452 



THE SAILING OF THE FLEET 453 

That swept the World with blade and blaze, 
With woe through countless myriad ways: 
Then crumbled up, inert and dumb, 
When God's appointed hour had come! 

Sea of the North, no more afar 

May thy waves be topped with the wrecks of War: 

But ever as the years increase 

Bear only up the Fleets of Peace ! 

December 19th, 191 8. 




GOLDEN WEDDING SONNET 

Kind is the Hand, dear Wife, and kind the care 
That brings us to our Golden-Wedding day, 
Still hale in health : in cheer and spirits fair, 
Despite the flitting seasons stretched away. 
And here are gathered, in this loving way, 
These groups, who thus their tender love display. 
Deep be our gratefulness that these are spared, 
As many blessings on our days descend : 
And be forgot the toils that we have shared, 
As on we move serenely to the end. 
Deep be our gratefulness for all the grace 
Of home and kin; and joys that grow apace! 
And while the fading light our life surrounds, 
The love of these, our greatest gifts, abounds. 

Sertember 13th, 19.21. 



454 




m 



THE LIGHT OF THE CRYPT 

Out of a realm of a faded trace; 

In the misty spheres of Time and Space ; 

Out of a day when the World was young ; 

Like a flaming ray from a taper flung 

There comes a Light — nor faint nor dim : 

'Neath the outstretched wings of the Cherubim; 

A Light that lay in the dark embrace 

Of the Crypt beneath the Temple's place ; 

Where springing arches guarded well 

The proxy- Ark of Israel; 

The while the Giblim sentry stand, 

With the Sword and Trowel in either hand. 

Long wrought the Sons of Gebal there, 
With the ringing clink of chisel and square; 
To form its founding, broad and deep, 
While prying eyes were closed in sleep: 
Wrought long to build the proper base 
To set the Cubic Stone in place ; 
And by it — deeper yet interred — 
To lay the Book of the Sacred Word: 
There to repose while the Ages grew; 
Till the waxing Centuries, moving through 
The zones that a higher life enfold, 
Laid bare to the World its stores of gold. 



455 



456 THE LIGHT OF THE CRYPT 

So, out of the tomb, thus buried away 

Has come the Rising Light of Day. 

That fills the World with its sheen and shine ; 

Shekinah-like ; a thing Divine. 

And who shall tell of the debt we owe 
To those Giblemites of Long Ago; 
Who kept, through labors, long and sure 
Those Firstlings of the Word secure; 
To be, as Time her page unfurled, 
The Faith and Solace of the World. 

Shine on, O Light of the Crypt, until 
Thy spheres of use be wider still. 
Shine on, till all the World be drawn 
Within thee — ever moving on: 
And this thy blest assurance be. 

Ye SHALL KNOW THE TRUTH: AND SHALL, SO, BE FREE ! 
September, 1921. 




THE DIAMOND JUBILEE 

Of Memphis Lodge No. 118, F. & A. Masons; October 6th, 1921 

S £ 
He who comes to the three-score-ten 
That the Psalmist sets for the lives of men, 
Sees the shadows gather and grow, 
And the Sun in the West go sloping low ; 
Sees the light be thin for him, 
And the purpling sky but faint and dim ; 
And his vapid life, or late or soon, 
Die down like the light of the waning moon. 

Not so when Time, with its strenuous hand, 
Has woven the woof of a Brotherly Band: 
Not so when the trend of the things that be 
Is cast in the mold of Fraternity : 
Where the ties that hold its banner high, 
Grow stronger yet as the days go by 
And the welded metal wears beside 
Its Crown of Age with a sense of Pride. 

So, who shall measure the good seed sown 

In the years of life that this Lodge hath known ? 

Who shall tell of the kindly deed ; 

Of the hand of help in the pressing .need? 

Of the word of cheer; of the soothing voice; 

Of making the burdened heart rejoice; 

Of the ministering acts that Kindness show, 

When the sands of Life are running low? 

457 



458 THE DIAMOND JUBILEE 

And farther yet ; who frame the roll 

Of her Sons, as a part of the Nation's soul ? 

The Bench; the Bar; the Pulpit; through 

High Statecraft's every avenue: 

The House ; the Senate ; they that be 

Of Physic, or of Surgery ; 

The Bank; the Counting-House ; the Mart; 

The Railway, and the realms of Art: 

Or they that till the fields, and give 

The bread by which the World may live; 

On, Hero-like, have borne beside 

Their Country's Banner, flying wide: 

Defending, yea with limb or life, 

In the thunder-shocks of mighty strife: — 

All this, and more, the Mind may see 

In this glad Diamond Jubilee! 

And as the years have onward sped, 

How hath the great World waxed and spread ! 

How was it when the Corner-stone 

Was laid for this Lodge in the far-off zone; 

Whose vital dole of hopes and fears, 

Has run through these five and seventy years? 

Could the voice of the human speak with ease 

Through the cavernous depths of the restless Seas? 

Could Thought be flashed from everywhere 

From land to land through the vacant air? 

Could the hills be swiftly spanned, and the Vale, 

With the dashing car or the glittering rail? 



THE DIAMOND JUBILEE 459 

Could the daring rise on droning wing, 
'Till the eagle below seems a tiny thing? 
Could the whirling disc break forth with song 
Like that to the nightingales belong? — 
Nay, nay ; We live in a Wonder-way 
Of Miracles, — more than the Savior's day! 
Yea, these and else have grown apace 
Since this Lodge began its forward race ! 

And what of the Future? Who shall say, 

To scan the prospect stretched away, 

What Wonder- Works, perchance may be 

More marvelous even than these we see? 

Be it ours to think, as someone stands 

On the dizzy heights of those unknown lands, 

In ages hence, when we are gone, 

And our places here are hardly known, 

That others, looking back, shall see 

The greater Triumphs, yet to be ; 

And in their glories, high and fair, 

May find your workings still be there ! 

So be it. Let the Harvest grown 

In those far Seasons, lapsed and flown, 

Be garnered fruit for those who reap, 

As stores, that shall their freshness keep ; 

And even far more glorious be 

Some other, later, lubilee! 



1921. 



460 EX ORIENTE LUX 

EX ORIENTE LUX 

Poem read at the laying of the Cornerstone of the Alhert Pike Mem- 
orial Temple Little Rock, May n, 1922. 

After the grief of that Summer night 
There comes for us a cheering light. 
After the ashes of dust and dismay 
There shines the brighter light of Day. 
As here beneath yon bended sky, 
We build this Home of Fraternity. 

Out of the days when Disaster came, 
With its seething heat and its lurid flame, 
And turned — as it were by a single stroke, 
The wealth of the Past into ashes and smoke, 
There rises again a nobler fane, 
And the strength of Resolve is born again. 

And who, as we gather here today, 

Shall peer through the future space and say 

What glorious deeds of high renown, 

This stately house shall gaze upon? 

Or who shall tell, from a furtive glance, 

What render-work of grand Advance, 

In the horoscope of this house appears, 

As forth it goes through the coming years? 

Pvise high, O roof and window wide, 
That stretchest far on every side 
To grasp within thine ample dome, 
The groups that here shall find a home ; 



EX ORIENTE LUX 46 

Rise high, O pillars, richly wrought, 

Each one the type of noble Thought, 

That bulk with sturdy strength to stand 

The touch of Time's effacing hand. 

And thou, O stone, be thou the while 

The corner of this noble pile, 

Whose mission be, till Time shall cease, 

To teach the gentler arts of Peace; 

And door and column; dome and wing, 

Shall each in turn a tribute bring 

To that high LIGHT OF TRUTH, increased 

By the Light that shineth from the East. 

Shine ever on, O gleaming Light ! 
Thy course be as a meteor bright. 
While stands the rounded World, O then 
Thy Light be the guiding light of men! 





807 East Ninth Street. My home for the last fifty years. 

Which for some years has cast its humble shade 
Through Winter's storms and singeing Summer's suns 
Above my head ; my wife's and cherished ones. 

— The Hanging of the Crane 



POSTSCRIPT 

A number of inaccuracies having appeared in print concerning these 
Poems, I deem it well to give at this place a few details concerning 
them. 

I was born in Little Rock, November 24, 1847, at what is now No. 
610 East Markham street, where my parents resided until 1853. One 
half of the house stood until after 1908, flanked by grand magnolia trees, 
which were planted by my Father. Subsequent to that date house and 
trees were removed, giving place to improvements. 

Both my parents were literary. My Mother had artistic accomplish- 
ments in music, painting and the writing of verse; while my Father 
possessed oratorical gifts, and a splendid faculty for composition. As a 
draftsman, a letter-writer of clearness and force, and for clear, compre- 
hensive and forceful statement, he was excellent. He held a high 

463 



464 FIORIA 

position at the Bar, and won distinction on the Bench. I received 
schooling under private tutors; then at St. John's College, Little Rock, 
and lastly at the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville, Virginia. I 
remember to have occasionally written verses in my boyhood, but not 
more than mere doggerel, and nothing indeed worthy of the name, until 
at the University of Virginia in 1867 seeing the Soldiers' graves in 
the University Cemetery strewn with flowers, I was moved to write a 
Poem which was published in the University Magazine and elicited fav- 
orable comment. It appears in this Volume under the title of "Memorial 
Day," with verses 5, 6 and 7 added. The publication of the Poem led 
to requests for others: one, furnished for some May Queen occasion, 
possessing merit, but which has not been preserved. This was followed 
by fugitive pieces, from time to time, of which one, appearing in this 
Volume under the Title of "Kairon Gnothi" was published in leaflet 
form about 1872, and attracted attention. A volume of Tennyson's 
Poems, given to me by my wife, at Christmas, 1875, furnishel a con- 
tinuing inspiration. As I read, and re-read those noble Poems, with 
which I had not previously become thoroughly acquainted, a new spirit 
was awakened within me, and I wrote frequently and readily thereafter. 
The Poems called "The Hundred Years" and "The Christmas Gift" 
were early products of this condition; and from that time on, I have 
written as the spirit has moved me. In 1878 I published through the 
press of Iyippincott & Co., of Philadelphia, a first Volume of my Poems, 
which was fairly good, and successful, as first Volumes go, but which 
does not reflect my best work. In 1898, twenty years later, there was 
published by Allsopp & Paul, through the Gazette Press of Little Rock, 
a Collected Edition of the Poems, which was followed speedily by other 
Editions. After a somewhat long silence, under the pressure of many 
engagements, and the overwhelming demands of business and official 
affairs, a visit to California in 1904 furnished inspiration for what I 
consider some of my best Poems. 

It was in 1907-08, however, that my greatest elevation in Poetical 
matters occurred. In the Autumn a Poem entitled "Sextennial" written 
upon the occasion of my attaining my sixtieth birthday was read before 
the Grand Lodge of Freemasons of Arkansas, of which I had long been 
Secretary. It was published in Masonic Magazines and in particular 
by Mr. Roswell T. Spencer of Chicago, editing the Masonic Voice- 
Review, who, on account of the Poem, placed my name in nomination 
for the post of Laureate of Freemasonry; a post which had been vacant 
for some ten years, since the death of Rob Morris of Kentucky, who 
was himself the successor of Robert Burns, the first to fill the office. 
The subject was placed before the Masonic Fraternity of the United 
States and Canada by means of a referendum, the result of which was 
that I was chosen to that high position, with practical unanimity. I 
was crowned as Laureate at Chicago October 5th, 1908, under the 
auspices of Ravenswood Lodge No. yyy of that City. Vesting me with 
that distinguished honor proved to be a stimulus and an incentive for 
many of my best efforts, coming after that time: those evoked by the 
great World War having received extensive notice and comment. 

Little Rock, Arkansas. 



NOTES 465 

NOTES 
Note 1, Page 130 

Tuccia was a vestal virgin who was accused of unchastity, the pun- 
ishment for which was death by being buried alive. Conscious of her 
innocence, she repaired to the edge of the river Tiber, bearing in her 
hands a sieve, and prayed to the gods to show, in proof of her purity, so 
great a miracle as that the utensil might retain water like a solid basin 
or vessel. Upon the test being made by her, the sieve, reversing the 
ordinary course of action in such cases, held the water, and she was 
thereby adjudged to be innocent of the charge, and her traducer 
punished. 

The story is from the writings of Sempronius. 

Note 2, Page 133 

Mountain Meadows 

On the 23rd day of March, 1877, John D. Lee, a Mormon leader, 
suffered the penalty of death for having instigated and participated in 
the massacre of a party of emigrants from Arkansas and Missouri, at 
Mountain Meadows in Southern Utah, in the year 1857. As the law of 
Utah allows a criminal to choose between hanging and shooting for the 
manner of his execution, Lee chose the latter, and was, accordingly, led 
out to the spot where the massacre occurred, and there, seated on his 
coffin, was shot to death by a volley of musketry from a platoon of 
guards. 

Note 3, Page 151 

"Like Solomon, imitating, made 
For Balkis, Queen of Sheba." 

The allusion here is to that passage of the Koran wherein is de- 
scribed the visit of the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon. Desiring to 
impress her with a sense of his wisdom and magnificence, he had erected 
a gorgeous tl rone, at the end of the court before the palace, which court 
he had caused to be floored with clear glass, laid over running water in 
which fish were swimming. When Balkis — for by this name was she 
known among the Arabs — came to it, she imagined it to be a great water, 
and made as if she would wade through. Whereupon Solomon said to 
her: "Verily this is a palace evenly floored with glass." 

The action of the cold in spreading over the water a sheet, trans- 
parent and clear, like g!ass, is the analogy employed. 



466 NOTES 



Note 4, Page 216 

The Wrangler. 

This poem was written after hearing lectures delivered in Tittle 
Reck by Prof. J. W. Clarke, a learned Englishman, upon the "Antiquity 
of Man," aad kindred scientific subjects. It touches upon two topics, — 
The Unity of the Human Race, and the Origin of the Species. 

In the first topic certain difficulties in conceiving that all men sprang 
from a common st^ck are suggested; and there are difficulties connected 
with the subject so great as to have led writers of high authority into 
the belief that there were several original pairs, at least more than one, 
for the propagation of the great human family; that Adam was the 
progenitor of the white race only; and that the Negro is descended from 
neither of the sons of Noah, but that he is pre-Adamite in his origin. 

The entry of Cain into the land of Nod, and his building there a 
city, is often adverted to as indicating the existence of other stocks of 
men than the Adamite pair. The building of a city is a matter not cer- 
tainly to be performed by an unaided man, the very mention of which is 
suggestive of the employment of many hundreds of men. And if built 
by himself and his immediate descendants, unaided by alien or stranger 
help, whence had he descendants? Who was his wife and where did he 
obtain her? Did he procure her in the land of Nod, or did he bring her 
with him from Eden? 

If the chronology of events is to be derived from the order in which 
they are stated in Genesis, he could not have taken her with him, for, 
at the time of his departure, no other children are mentioned as having 
been born to Adam and Eve but the two, Cain and Abel. The birth of 
the next child succeeding the two is not recorded to have been until 
after the killing of Abel; for of this child (Seth) Eve said, "God hath 
appointed me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew." Thus 
showing that at the time of Cain's departure there was no one he could 
have taken with him for a wife. 

And if he returned to the land of his parents, and took unto him- 
self one of those daughters of Adam born during the eight hundred 
years that Adam lived after the birth of Seth, we do not learn it from 
the Book of Genesis. 

These things have induced the belief that when Cain went into the 
land of Nod he encountered a pre-Adamite negro race, and amalgamated 
with them. 

Now to account for the existence of the black man on the globe 
to-day, since we know he did not enter into and come out of the ark, it 
is proposed that the flood was only partial in its extent, and did not 
embrace his race. 



NOTES 467 



This is certainly against the common belief, for the idea has ob- 
tained in the mind of the world, derived both from revelation and 
science, that that disaster was universal in its sweep upon what was the 
world in that day. It is mentioned by the Duke of Argyle, in his 
"Primeval Man," p. 92, that "the wide belief in the existence of a flood 
among heathen nations, and tribes now separated by half the circum- 
ference of the globe," is an indication of the unity of the human race, 
the knowledge thereof being considered as having been handed down by 
descent from a surviving few. 

But necessarily, on the hypothesis that the flood was universal in its 
spread, these surviving few were those who entered into and came out 
of the Ark, and then the same difficulty arises in conceiving the black 
race to have sprung from the descendants of the white man Noah, that 
there was in the first instance in conceiving him to have sprung from 
the white man Adam. 

The differences between these two most widely-divergent types are 
so great in color, in the coloring matter of the skin, in hair, and in the 
structure of the frame, as to lead physiologists to the belief that they 
are referable to distinct and independent creations of man, and not to 
any divergence, by the effects of climate or other causes, from an origi- 
nal common type of mankind. 

Upon the second topic of the poem, I am free to confess that I do 
not consider a development theory, or theory of gradual growth, which 
acknowledges God as the starting point, to be improbable. There is 
nothing that militates against God, in such a belief. For, as remarked 
by Dr. Chadbourne in his work on Natural Theology (Lect. vi.), it 
makes little difference in our faith whether we believe God to have made 
Adam all at once a full-grown man, or whether He made him first an 
atom or germ which should in time grow into man. In either case He 
is the Maker, and it is just as great a manifestation of His power to say 
that He made such a germ, endowed with such a capacity, as it would 
be to say that He made a full-grown and complete man in an instant of 
time. It is just as great a miracle of wisdom and power that He makes 
an acorn, that in time shall develop into an oak, as it would be if He 
made a full-grown tree in the twinkle of an eye. As in Nature all 
things begin with a germ, and by gradual growth arrive at their per- 
fected state, so likewise would it be fair to conclude that in the first in- 
stance the body of man began in a germ created by the Maker, and 
endowed by Him with the power to develop in time and into perfected 
manhood. Why should there be an exception made, in the case of man, 
from the course of proceedings in the making of all other atoms of the 
Universe? And to say that man rose up out of some lower form of 



468 NOTES 



animal would be to contradict the fixed law of Nature by which a 
species produces its own species, and none other, forever. It would be 
like saying that a peach tree could be grown out of an apple seed. 



Note 5, Page 221 

"It Ulled the sketch that God began, 
As found in time Silurian." 

"The pectoral fin of the first fish in the Silurian seas, in the dim 
geologic ages, was the first sketch of the hand of Man that Nature in- 
troduced upon the globe. And from that simple sketch she never varied; 
but the plan became more definite and perfect, and higher in its use as 
higher animals were introduced, till an organ was produced that is a fit 
servant of the intelligence with which Man is endowed." — Chadbourne's 
Nat. Theol., p. 112. 










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